You will do as I say, or—’ ‘Hoy!’ called Trodger from down the hall. ‘It is in truth you?’ ‘Of course it is I. But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation. Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something. 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. He swung it open and then used his body to pin her against her seat.
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