They confronted each other, barely feet apart, neither apparently any longer aware of anyone else in the room. Thrilling, she began to dance, swirled, glided, and dipped. 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. For a long time neither spoke again. It was just a shabby, stupid, furtive business that began between us. O'Higgins returned to town and made a night of it, nothing very wild, nothing very desperate.
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