Very gently indeed, Alderley grasped the handle of the door and stealthily turned it. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. “It really is not necessary. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. 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. That turned her mind to the more generalized aspects of her perplexities again. . ’ You have no right to call yourself ‘Alcide.
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