You don’t deserve it, but he does. Spurling had retired for the night. She glanced into his face. 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. “Don’t think that I have been playing the spy upon you,” he continued. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want. From then on he was Ruth's dog. It's precisely the same thing to me to bid my janizaries cut Thames Darrell's throat, as to order Jack Sheppard's execution.
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