It was easy enough to lie to anyone else. One day I can be a Gothic chick, and the next day I’ll be Hitler Youth. 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. Everyone will grumble to you confidentially—Miss Ellicot, she’s our swagger young lady, you know—up there, next to Miss White, she will tell you that it is so out of the world here, so far away from everyone one knows. . Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. Habits and tastes are no longer the same.
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