And the woollen-draper departed. Anna was no favourite at No. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. He was now as civil as he had just been insolent. She saw his eyes glaze over. Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin. ‘There is little I can do at present. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip.
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