The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. ’ ‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted, but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice. 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.
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