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 joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. “You do not know what you say. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. A cup of lies. . She knew now the supreme human energy which sent men to hell or carried them to their earthly heights.
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