” Michelle looked puzzled. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. She was trying to adjust the wimple, dragging at it and fighting with her loosened hair. There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. ’ ‘Not, I trust, Nicholas Charvill?’ ‘Hardly. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. She wanted to be alone.
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