Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. 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. Ann Veronica decided she would have to go on with Capes another day, and, looking up, discovered him sitting on a stool with his hands in his pockets and his head a little on one side, regarding her with a thoughtful expression. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply. Very fascinating, though, trying to analyse the impulse. She hated the manor. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said.
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