But it is my fault. Lucy inhaled deeply. ’ ‘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. It was the one that she had sworn she’d throw out, if only Julian had not liked it so much. She declined and finished with a few of her favorite excerpts from Scheherazade. I can smell you. She was rash and ignorant, absolutely inexperienced. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. Bribble’s rendering of the service —he had the sort of voice that brings out things—and was still teeming with ideas about it when finally a wild outburst from the organ made it clear that, whatever snivelling there might be down in the chancel, that excellent wind instrument was, in its Mendelssohnian way, as glad as ever it could be. ’ ‘I don’t know,’ confessed Gerald.
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