“Okay. ” The conversation hung. 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. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. But though the shot took effect, as was evident from the stains on the ground, the villain escaped. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. ‘Why?’ ‘Why take me to France? Why trouble himself with me, when so easily he could leave me to this Monsieur Remenham to keep?’ To Melusine’s instant suspicion, Martha bit her lip, drew a breath, and avoided her charge’s gaze.
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