Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. ‘You’ll come with us and get yourself safe back home to your convent, understand?’ ‘But wait,’ begged Melusine, hanging back. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. He’ll survive. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. Wood's boat bearing up towards him. His little doll. “She’s been up to no good, Sheila.
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