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. But what if she were to marry? He glanced towards the elderly dame and found her watching him, the dimple very much in evidence. Still, my tutor was a highly educated scholar—my father. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. ‘And why not?’ ‘Because,’ Gerald said matter of factly, ‘convent-bred jeune demoiselles do not commonly know how to handle either pistols or daggers. Her blood spurted into his mouth and he drank. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor.
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