The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. Capes stood beside Miss Stanley, who was beaming unnaturally, and Mr. ’ ‘To you,’ she said angrily. Opposite, his pupil stood with bowed head and clasped hands. ‘Pray you, mademoiselle, can you not—’ ‘No use trying to enlist Lucilla’s aid,’ snapped Roding. You don’t deserve it, but he does. 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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