" "How long have I been in bed?" "A week. “Do you mean in looks?” she asked. ‘But tell me this instead. But I wrapped it in that nun’s gear you give me. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Her impressions of this cardinal ceremony were rich and confused, complicated by a quite transitory passion that awakened no reciprocal fire for a fat curly headed cousin in black velveteen and a lace collar, who assisted as a page. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. What’s the name of the happy man?” Gwen owned to “Fortescue.
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