’ ‘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. Well-born, welleducated; those are the lads that pay in full. That wrappered life, as you call it—we’ve burned the confounded rags! Danced out of it! We’re stark!” “Stark!” echoed Ann Veronica. “In a sense—yes. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there.
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