Still, her face never betrayed this distraction. “Act three. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. I always fall on my feet, you know. And she—’ ‘She!’ interrupted the young lady crossly. She touched bow to strings, playing a fifth. It occurred to Ann Veronica once that she had known him when he was younger, but day had followed day, and each had largely obliterated the impression of its predecessor. You were pointed out to me at—a few nights ago. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. The only mercy you can show me is to kill me. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night.
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