It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. 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. "Ha! say you so? You must be looked to. I'm sure he'll do his best to content you. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. ‘But don’t let me stop you from going to see Charvill. “I will tell you as much as this,” she continued. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure.
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