“Nigel is like all men,” Lady Lescelles continued. 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. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. Then she would be dead, and that was no use. “I didn’t understand, Vee. “Sure. You have betrayed me. He was way out of her league and it was downright odd that he had obliged himself to talk to her, let alone walk her home. It was the size of my palm. .
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