Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent. ‘I find this was excessively clever of Gérard. The winters were terrible in cold climates, and she often had been driven to dig herself large underground pits where she waited it out like a mole in the cold months. I’M shaken. When she awoke from a pleasant dream an hour later, she was shocked to find herself restrained in a bed that was not hers and not the inn’s. “You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. Later, when they returned home, she would serve as the topic of many conversations. But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. McClintock. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. The horns were the worst, slipping in and out of tune and rushing the easy sections, fighting everyone else. I——” She threw herself into an easy chair.
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