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. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. If I let you believe I did not love you, and they found me, your shame would be negligible. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. " "And do you think I'll allow you to depart," cried Jonathan in a menacing tone, "and compromise my safety? No, no. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. She uncrossed her legs and lowered herself, carefully and slowly, until she lay supine. ‘Yes, but quite my own fault.
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