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. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. Throwing down the pencil, she snatched up a piece of India-rubber, and exclaiming,—"It isn't at all like him! it isn't half handsome enough!" was about to efface the sketch, when Thames darted into the room. "Look at these fetters," returned Thames, holding up his manacled wrists; "they were put on by my uncle's command. ‘You’ll make shadows.
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