Nigel Ennison was he. He had to know the truth, Melusine. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. ’ ‘Yes, but I’m hanged if I see what your game is. . ’ Melusine turned her head.
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