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. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. He lowered his voice a little and leaned over towards her. The back of the house had been the Alps for climbing, and the shrubs in front of it a Terai. You simply can’t. He had died before they married, and when her brother became a widower she had come to his assistance and taken over much of the care of his youngest daughter. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard.
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