But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly. Melusine soon found herself seated at a table, with a dirty piece of paper in front of her, and a badly mended pen between her fingers. ‘Least of all, one who takes advantage of another’s misfortune. Why am I here—thirty years of loneliness? Because I know women, the good and the bad; and because I could not have the good, I would not take the bad. I can decide for myself. She knew that her voice was superior to Annabel’s, and she had no further qualms. Under her feet lay intricate mosaics, and each warm hall was festooned in tapestries. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere.
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