” “Rules are for every day,” said Ann Veronica. 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. And they’ll shut the gates presently. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense.
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