He handed Ruth a letter. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. He had looked at it before without comprehension. Do you know, Ann Veronica, it is all a lie about your birth certificate; a forgery—and fooling at that. ‘But he must have—’ ‘Nicholas Charvill never did anything he must do,’ Mrs Sindlesham said evenly. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. Lucy cringed, her eyes widening.
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