Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. Rats and things crawling all over. His grief was so audible, that it attracted the notice of some of the bystanders, and Thames was obliged to beg him to control it. 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. She forbade him to escape to his workshop in the basement during those times, denying him his one and only hobby. Here was a terrific figure gnashing his teeth, and howling like a wild beast;—there a lover, with hands clasped together and eyes turned passionately upward. ‘Let it fall!’ ‘Brute!’ she spat, struggling, and he knew at once he had guessed aright. The spinsters were not kind; they were only curious because she was odd and wore a dress thirty years out of date.
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