You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. ***** Coconuts grew perpetually. 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. It was too good to be true. Winifred screamed. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer.
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