It could not be she who had done this. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. Her relationship with John had made her the object of desire for scores of teenage boys who had dared not previously think of her in such a way. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. "When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. “We have to be— modern.
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