Before the Monroes I was placed with a single woman, Leslie Cavendish. As she raised it, its lower portion fell apart into two baggy crimson masses. With a curt command to her cavalier to get up on the box and give the direction to the interested coachman, he jumped in beside the girl and shut them both into privacy. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. She’s as stubborn as the proverbial mule, and—’ with a sigh that felt wrenched out of him ‘—utterly captivating. As if it were she, and not Melusine, who had been hurt by the imposters. He breathed heavily, as though he had been running.
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