Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. It was convenient for Father Saint-Simon, who could enter this way and prepare in the little room before going up the narrow stair to the chapel above where the nuns waited. A vein of conviction mingled with his burlesque. 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. "We'll see," returned the thief-taker. He looked at Hilary and nodded.
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