To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. He was way out of her league and it was downright odd that he had obliged himself to talk to her, let alone walk her home. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. ‘Me, I am Mademoiselle Charvill, the granddaughter of Monsieur Jar-vis Re-men-ham. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand. She turned her eyes to him again, and saw her late friend and pleasant and trusted companion, who had seen fit suddenly to change into a lover, babbling interesting inacceptable things.
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