“It was perhaps my fault. They were very nice about it, in memory of your father. Ennison was deeply interested. Oblige me by acting under my guidance in the matter, Sir Rowland. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. For what indeed does she do? A simple song, no gesture, no acting, nothing. Voilà tout. Later, she understood his reasons; and it had now become habit. 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.
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