Something as yet unformulated within her kept her estranged from all these practical aspects of her beliefs. Why not? Were not his own sentiments inclined in favour of the patient? But fifty gold was fifty gold. "I don't know," she answered vaguely. 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. She tipped his mouth towards her own and kissed him. "I'll admit that. He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathernlooking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning.
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