Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. He was a fool. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. “Come this way,” he said.
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