Her breath came fast in little sobbing pants. ‘Because,’ said Lady Bicknacre in the confidential manner of all matrons when passing on a tidbit of scandal, ‘Nicholas married against his father’s wishes and ran away. Now then, missie—’ ‘Bon,’ said Melusine, interrupting him without ceremony, and paying no attention to the muskets that were pointing at her from two directions. Her fingers opened and the weapon fell from her nerveless grasp. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in.
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