I have no intention of allowing you to depart in a hurry. It is dull—deadly dull. She stopped eating. He remembered also, all at once, the very first words he had heard her speak: “I was not born to this. ‘To what do you go, mademoiselle? The life of a nun in a convent, in a country where nuns are unwelcome. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. “You understand, then,” he was saying, “you understand?” “I understand,” said Ann Veronica, tear-wet and flushed with a reciprocal passion, but standing up to him with an equality that amazed even herself, “I understand. 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 had expected a love story; and love was totally absent.
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