I love your very breath. But anything is better than this. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. 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 would have been very well if she had been some common creature who might have been bought off. Their small talk continued. I’ve told them all that was necessary, but I— wanted to ask your pardon—for having made myself a nuisance to you, and for breaking into your rooms—and to thank you—the doctor says you bound up my wound—or I should have bled to death. Life! Life and love! It makes me want to be always young, always strong, always devoting my life—and dying splendidly.
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