’ Melusine turned, an irrepressible giggle escaping her lips as she thought of the Mother Abbess in the convent at Blaye. This was his sister, evidently in the last extremity. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. “My mind is full of confused stuff,” he said at length. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. “You must come and see me some afternoon,” she said to him.
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