’ Chapter Six Creeping along the dark narrow passage, with lantern held well ahead to keep her step steady on the uneven stones—and to warn her of the advent of rats— Melusine kept her long petticoats fastidiously clear of the dirt with an efficient hand, a habit she had learned in the convent. “I hate this!” Lucy accused him, pointing to the Michelle. ’ ‘It is you who is absurd,’ countered Melusine, the spark returning to her eye. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky.
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