It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. “No, I’d like to. At the back of her mind, Melusine noted an odd look in the boy’s face, but there was no time to explore it. "We went through your belongings. I love you. By chance I went to one who had known you in Paris. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. I—I hurt myself.
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