At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. He kissed her cheek. "For my part, I don't think you ever quite got over the accident you met with on the night of the Great Storm. ” He caught her wrist and turned her face towards him. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. Oh! that I should live to be father-in-law to a peer of France! What would my poor wife say to it, if she could come to life again? Oh, Thames!—my lord marquis, I mean—you have made me the happiest—the proudest of mankind. 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.
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