"I alone am to blame. "Women must have their wills while they live, since they can make none when they die," observed Wood, as he imprinted a kiss of reconciliation on the plump hand of his consort;—a sentiment to the correctness of which the party chiefly interested graciously vouchsafed her assent. Vorsack looked pale and pink. 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. ‘Pray you, mademoiselle, can you not—’ ‘No use trying to enlist Lucilla’s aid,’ snapped Roding. Lucy could sense her mental resolution to nip Michelle’s burgeoning obsession with the occult in the bud. The highest form of knowledge was magic: the priesthood. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully.
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