” She turned her face to the fire, gripped her hands upon her elbows, and drew her thin shoulders together in a shrug. "What do you think of your nephew, Sir Rowland?" whispered Jonathan, who sat with his back towards Thames, so that his features were concealed from the youth's view. 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. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. Gregory B.
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