He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him. "You've given me more than the amount, Sir Rowland," he said, after he had twice counted them, "or I've missed my reckoning. 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. Right now my heart is occupied. Thames," she urged, "the errand, on which you're going, can't be for any good, or you wouldn't be afraid of mentioning it to my father.
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