But it was only when that damned scoundrel nearly spitted you in the chapel—’ He broke off and, to her intense satisfaction she saw he was not as much in command of himself as he would have her believe. ‘The credentials, milor’,’ he ventured. She saw her discarded nun’s habit still on the floor and scooped it up. And Pottiswick, of course. ‘And I suppose I shall be obliged to endure another nonsensical tale about your husband. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. "But it is much to me. Only Gwen left a letter on the pincushion.
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