Then Melusine is in truth your granddaughter. ‘What’s this? Impertinence! French manners, is it?’ ‘Grace à vous,’ Melusine threw at him fiercely. ‘I am sure you will. ” “I thought so,” Courtlaw said. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked. ‘Can you not open it?’ she cried. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven.
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