‘I don’t think you need do that, Melusine—if I may call you so. It wailed at Lucy, chubby arms reaching towards her, pleading. Hitherto you’ve seen only my easy, kindly side. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. “You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he had greeted her, entering the little private parlour where, Martha being at prayer in their room, she sat alone, reading over and over the letter Mother Abbess had given her and revolving plans in her head.
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