Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. “And if she can’t have the right one? “We’ve developed such a quality of preference!” She rubbed her knuckles into her forehead. ‘It is, you understand, that Monsieur Charvill did not—how do you say in English?—having an eye to an eye—’ ‘Didn’t see eye to eye with the Vicomte Valade? That I can well believe. You will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice.
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