‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. Melusine was unable to repulse him—even had she tried. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. How did you meet him?’ ‘He was wounded and came to the convent for sanctuary,’ Melusine told him, stung by his criticism into revealing more than she had intended. It was evident the lady’s servant knew his mistress, for he had come equipped with a tray upon which reposed a decanter and two glasses. She delighted in frustrating him.
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