” The figure of her aunt, a little distant, a little propitiatory, behind the coffee things, filled her with a sense of almost catastrophic adventure. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night. Manning, I do not think I love you. After all, she only LOOKED a woman. As for my past, Michelle, and Michael’s, it is a book of woeful chapters better left unread. ’ Melusine stifled a giggle. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. It was a purse. Her aunt had a once exasperating habit of interrupting her work with demands for small household services, but now Ann Veronica rendered them with a queer readiness of anticipatory propitiation.
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