When they started getting on each other’s nerves, she blamed herself at first. Perhaps she was. Love and companionship. Melusine had confessed this morning, that she had borrowed his horse, that Jack had met with his accident through her fault. 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. Even then it sent Spurlock spinning backward, to crash against the wall. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness.
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