“It is part of the irony of life,” he said. . ’ Chapter Nine As she devoured the simple meal of bread and cheese, and several slices of cold roast beef, the whole washed down with a poor sort of coffee, Melusine listened with avid interest to the details of her mother’s life as revealed by the exclamatory conversation of Joan Ibstock. You cannot depart hence. It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. In all other respects they differed as materially.
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