It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the swiftness of desperation. Where is your hat?’ ‘Parbleu, is this a way to rescue me?’ Melusine demanded, digging in her heels and wrenching her arm out of his hold. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. An admirable alternative presented itself and she sighed, spreading her hands.
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