” “You are jealous,” she declared contemptuously. If I could but——” To escape from her thoughts she began to undress, humming a light tune to herself, though her eyes were hot with unshed tears, and the sobs kept rising in her throat. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish. 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. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. —I do not congratulate you on your success. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright.
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