She went to her room and changed the loose morning gown in which she had lunched for a dark walking dress. And then they talked of Anarchism and Socialism, and whether the former was the exact opposite of the latter or only a higher form. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right. 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 leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story.
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