He taught her how to read and write in Latin and Greek, often rewarding her for her efforts with a flower or a trinket. Last time I left home I felt as hard as nails. I guess those books are okay because they are fiction. As you know my seed is infertile with all women, they are no more than cattle, but it was not so with my Rhea. She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. “Would you wait for me?” Manning was silent for a space. 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.
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