Swiftly he looked back to Melusine and found she had whisked to the window, dragging a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve and hastily blowing her nose. ‘Ah, non,’ exclaimed the husband. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. “Ann Veronica,” he said, “I tell you this is love. Its heroes never had daughters, they borrowed other people’s. “She must go her own way. And yet—I love you. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. ” Tears flowed down her face.
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