‘You don’t even know what it means, do you?’ Melusine frowned. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. Lucy stood in front of the piano. ‘You’ll come with us and get yourself safe back home to your convent, understand?’ ‘But wait,’ begged Melusine, hanging back. “You asked me in to tea,” he protested. She breathed deeply. I only know that it is right to do what I do.
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