’ Melusine turned, an irrepressible giggle escaping her lips as she thought of the Mother Abbess in the convent at Blaye. Charcoal. She felt terribly modern, even sporty as the magazines declared you should be. ’ ‘You always were an old sobersides, even as a boy,’ retorted the major, who was close on thirty now, yet as ripe for excitement as he had been on receiving his first commission at sixteen. A remittance man. Pity you aren’t under my command. That is the dreadful truth. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti.
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