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There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. H’m. “Very well,” he said. ‘No one would credit that you are three years older than I. ‘What in God’s name is going on?’ Glancing swiftly towards the doorway, Gerald saw his friend’s disbelieving face and burst out, speaking over the top of Melusine as she made another grab for the little square of linen. He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. “I’ve been,” she said, “forbidden to come.
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