Part 2 Ann Veronica Stanley was twenty-one and a half years old. They went into Michelle's tiny bedroom, bare except for a dresser, a closet, and a miniscule single bed that resembled her own at the Becks. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. For the first time that day, she was finally able to look into his face. “The bravest of us have joints in our armour. Most of my successes in life have been made with a sort of reckless vigor. 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 to-night we are friends?” “We are friends,” said Ann Veronica, and drew her hand quickly away from him. ‘Wait! At least tell me where I can find you. But it was her proof. Always.
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