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. ‘I am not in the least in a rage. Stanley. “I may seem unduly— anxious. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. He looked fiercely and inquiringly from one to the other of his companions; but, though both of them were excessively frightened, neither appeared guilty. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. “Why did you ever let me love you? Why did you ever let me peep through the gates of Paradise? Oh! my God! I don’t begin to feel and realize this yet. .
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