The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. Our mutual safety requires it. McClintock laughed as he gave the letter to Ruth. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. A spot of colour, brighter than any rouge, burned on her cheeks. 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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