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. You need fear no interruption from him, or any of his myrmidons. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. So he made his dispositions and went off on some other fool’s errand. “I think she is the perpetrator behind several attacks, not just the clothes stealing. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. I could not have committed this robbery. And you have stolen my dagger. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals.
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