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. Peg after peg had gone down his blistered throat, but never had a smile touched his lips, never had his gaze roved inquisitively. He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. She was strong, not unlike a pack mule or a camel; she thought to herself and smirked. "But this need give you no uneasiness," pursued Jonathan; "Mrs. ’ Very likely they would give——” “I should be satisfied with the sum you mention,” Anna said quietly, “but there are difficulties. .
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