He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. I’ve been smoking cigarettes in the preparation-room and thinking this out. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. Manning in fancy costume, as though he was a doll. 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. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes.
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