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She saw her discarded nun’s habit still on the floor and scooped it up. He was the social order; he was law and wisdom. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. ’ Abruptly, the niggling doubt that had been plaguing Lord Charvill came sweeping to the surface.
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