“You’ve no right to badger me like this, Veronica,” he said. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. It had been Ann Veronica’s lot as the youngest child to live in a home that became less animated and various as she grew up. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. ‘Deaf? Deaf? I’ll have you know, miss—’ ‘Do not have me know anything,’ interrupted Melusine crossly, and digging into her habit, produced the fateful dagger that had cut Gerald’s hand.
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