” She shook her head. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. ‘No sense in snooping about down here,’ Gerald whispered. Gerald looked at it, then at her face. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. ” “I have a clue, at any rate,” he remarked, smiling. There was a gulf of eight years between her and the youngest of her brace of sisters—an impassable gulf inhabited chaotically by two noisy brothers. ‘I do not remember the name,’ Melusine said, turning to Mrs Ibstock. The Frenchman was already being followed.
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