He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. ‘He’d have been that happy if he’d known how you’re the spit of her, miss. ’ The core of hurt rose up, tearing at her insides. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. ‘Melusine, don’t sit there.
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