He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. He was caked with dried muck. Lucy heard a stir, but if Dawn Plote were to arise and come into the room, it could only mean two murders tonight. 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. ‘You imbecile. He thought, too, of the fretful invalid who lay in the next room to his, whose money had created his business and made his position in the world. . And for Suzanne and the vicomte, I am nothing. You must have repented a little, or you would not have done that. Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair.
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