’ Chapter Six Creeping along the dark narrow passage, with lantern held well ahead to keep her step steady on the uneven stones—and to warn her of the advent of rats— Melusine kept her long petticoats fastidiously clear of the dirt with an efficient hand, a habit she had learned in the convent. And I have wanted to so very much. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. A door, it may be remembered, opened from Wild's dwelling into this yard. Wood. That’s who you ought to go and see, miss. ” “And mine,” murmured his companion, with the smile still lingering upon his lips. ’ ‘Gone off?’ repeated Melusine, her wrongs rising up to tear into her chest. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. .
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