Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. ‘How fascinating. It is the same man, for he raved in the hospital, and they fetched me. As though accidentally she swept her skirts from a chair close drawn to her own. Oh, it is unbearable. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. ‘You’ll come with us and get yourself safe back home to your convent, understand?’ ‘But wait,’ begged Melusine, hanging back.
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