" Ruth repeated the word, not in the effect of a query, but ruminantly. “And then they are swollen up and inflamed and drunken with matter. ” A spot of colour flared in Anna’s cheek as she glanced towards the speaker. She kept pausing in her work and regarding it, and when Capes came round to her, she first put her hand in her lap and then rather awkwardly in front of him. 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. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had.
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