“Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. Never mind. Lucy inhaled deeply. If he got her outside, surely the soldiers would see her and intervene. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this.
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