It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. 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. The minute he discovers Roding here, he’ll know something is up. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently.
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