Except for one memorable school excursion to Paris, Ann Veronica had never yet been outside England. ’ A gleam of rare humour slid into Charvill’s chest. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance.
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