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. Always! I don’t believe there is any strong natural affection at all between parents and growing-up children. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. ‘And if you like, I will tell you why. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. He stood up, apparently intending to put an arm about her, but she stepped back from him quickly.
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