They were headed by an athleticlooking, swarthy-featured man, who was armed with a cutlass, which he waved over his head to cheer on his companions. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. While waiting for his coming she had stated her present and future relations with him with what had seemed to her the most satisfactory lucidity and completeness. “It’s either now or never,” said Ann Veronica, again ascending this stile. 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. She was pensive and thoughtful.
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