What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'. 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. All the same, I don’t admit it. You think you love this other man! No doubt you do love him. There was little more here than a sideboard, a chest for the vestments, and a simple wooden chair. Here and there, a building might be seen with the doors and windows driven in, and all access to it prevented by the heaps of bricks and tilesherds. ” He looked at her intently. "Never mind," replied the tapstress. Her cheeks were aflame. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship.
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