The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. For a time Ann Veronica went on her way gauging the quality of sordid streets. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. Don’t ask me how. He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night. How she learned of her heritage I do not know, but you need not imagine that it is greed that drives her.
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