Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. Wood was once a favourite of yours. He was always visualizing the Hand whenever he let his gaze rest upon the horizon. They are not your children, they never were. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. The nuns had no regard for the sensibilities of a “lady” and expected Melusine— for it was her allotted task—to clean and tend the soldier’s wounds even when they festered.
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