Charvill’s command of French was enough to tell him that, for its entire content was devoted to commending Nicholas Charvill’s fourteen year old daughter into the care of the Abbess. It’s these damned novels. A woman was born to have children, particularly male children. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. Another day of nonsuccess would mean many disagreeable things. Our men had him fast, held down in a chair. They compromised at length on the science course at the Tredgold Women’s College—she had already matriculated into London University from school—she came of age, and she bickered with her aunt for latch-key privileges on the strength of that and her season ticket. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life.
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