“And that only brings me up to about sixty-five! “A glittering wilderness of time That to the sunset reaches No keel as yet its waves has ploughed Or gritted on its beaches. Jack Sheppard warns Thames Darrell 284 VIII. Look at these walls. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. “Surely!” he remarked, with an expression of worried appeal. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. His attention drawn, the captain was easily able to make out the pretty features under the feathered hat, and the same dark riding habit the fugitive had worn on that first occasion at Remenham House. 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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