’ Abruptly, the niggling doubt that had been plaguing Lord Charvill came sweeping to the surface. I’ve got to have you, and by God I will. I came here peaceably, and I only ask for a few words with you. He had abandoned his oars, and the boat was drifting with the stream towards the enemy. He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. How the deuce did I ever manage to father such a brainless nincompoop? A nun, for God’s sake! A confounded Catholic nun. The major’s hand stilled.
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