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. In a few minutes more he had made a breach in the roof wide enough to allow him to pass through. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. Every now and then her general presence became radiantly dazzling in his eyes; she would appear in the street coming toward him, a surprise, so fine and smiling and welcoming was she, so expanded and illuminated and living, in contrast with his mere expectation. He realized that he was committed to the path across the fields, an uninteresting walk at the best of times. "Tom," continued Kneebone, calling to the shop-boy, "don't go home. For you know that I have made up my mind to dig a little way into life single-handed. It’s—it’s a social difference. She still had her letter of credit.
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