Sebastian grabbed a rock from a corner and bashed in its skull. The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor. “Do you want some of mine?” “Yes. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him.
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