Under this unnerving scrutiny, a slow flush mounted to the woman’s cheeks. Sheppard prepared for church. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. But I don’t care; I haven’t a spark of shame. ’ Melusine turned, an irrepressible giggle escaping her lips as she thought of the Mother Abbess in the convent at Blaye. ’ ‘It is true,’ insisted the lady.
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