You go home and wait a century, Vee, and then try again. ‘What was you wanting it for, may I ask?’ ‘You may not ask, for it is none of your affair,’ Melusine snapped. And then: “Of course! Always. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. Perhaps that was why Sheila began to observe Lucy, because both of them were poignantly aware of Lucy’s otherness. “Some day you will be my wife, and it would not be well for either of us to remember that in these unhappy days you and I were separated. She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. . Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it.
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