I can’t. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. 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. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. I wonder how it is,” she added, “that boys always make love so impertinently. So I had to buy out his interest, and it pinched me dreadfully to do it. Why, there's another party on the stair-head inquiring arter scullers; and, by the mass! they appear in a greater hurry than any on us.
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