’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. “Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. “I’ve been through all that,” she went on, after a pause. That you are not Valade at all, and that I am Melusine Charvill, the granddaughter of monsieur le baron, the general. None this end. Gerald sympathised with his friend’s irritation. Clarice was from Lombardy, fair-haired and light skinned.
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