She shuddered. Just. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. ’ ‘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. Just my room. It came to her like a dear thing rediscovered, that she loved Capes. ‘Oh, Marthe,’ she groaned, using in her accustomed way the French version of her nurse’s name, ‘that pig is going to monsieur le baron. Go to her and tell her. ” “You came to tell me this?” “I came for you,” he declared fiercely. I can bear anything but suspense.
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