Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. He stood before her. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. ‘I don’t want a list of all the nuns resident in your wretched convent. ’ ‘Bon,’ exclaimed Melusine, triumph soaring. ‘This is not a place for a man.
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