“I’ve been,” she said, “forbidden to come. 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. It towered up high above the level of the pass, thousands of feet, still, shining, and white, and below, thousands of feet below, was a floor of little woolly clouds. Great sport, eh? To haul them back from the ragged edge.
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