’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. "What a wonderful colour!" she exclaimed. She was to be a Corsair’s Bride. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. "No, I don't. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman.
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