The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. ‘Now then, missie, where do you think you’re going?’ ‘I must see Jacques only for one little minute,’ Melusine told him prettily, fluttering her lashes. ” She patted his arm and wiped her tears away. She felt him sometimes at night as he called to her in her dreams. It was better even than the hymn-singing. His foot tapped impatiently, and he took up the papers. It’s not you—not a bit. ’ Gerald controlled a quivering lip.
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