Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. Charvill’s command of French was enough to tell him that, for its entire content was devoted to commending Nicholas Charvill’s fourteen year old daughter into the care of the Abbess. She obeyed, extending her arm. “I must explain to her. ‘As to that, I am a devil, say the nuns. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. Gentlemen, I am proud to say that I originated—that I directed those measures. Was she so bad a prospect? ‘No good, Melusine,’ said a new voice from the doorway. I'm an old hand at such things. “But your hair,” he gasped.
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