It was then for the first time she remembered that she had said nothing to her sister of the man in the hospital. Not us. "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "Forgive you—bless you!" she gasped. 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. It appeared from what he said that he had been captured when asleep,—that his liquor had been drugged,—otherwise, he would never have allowed himself to be taken alive. It’s an emerald.
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