She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. 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. “Yeah, everybody knows him Mom. He had been on the point of leaving the restaurant. Besides, the sun had gone in and it looked like rain. It goes to my heart to disappoint you, but this thing must not be. Manning, I do not really want to marry. They sat in the windowed booth at the restaurant across from each other.
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