"We're forgetting," he said. “You cannot say that you did not expect me,” he answered. " "True," replied the widow, upon whom all the terrible recollections of the day before crowded, "I know it isn't. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. The stranger turned his head at the sound. Lucy stared out to the busy streets beyond. He walked with bent head. 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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