Mr. ’ ‘And you believe her?’ asked Lucilla, raising her brows. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. 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. Lost ground must be regained. “What nonsense is this? What raving! My dear child, you DO live, you DO exist! You have this home.
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