“What did it matter?” she cried. “It was a plot amongst them all to humiliate her. The intensity of the eyes and the defiant tone bewildered the doctor, who found his well-constructed jeremiad without a platform. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. 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.
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