” “Call it what you like,” Anna answered. Martha had been careful to make no mention of Melusine, and did not reply to Mrs Ibstock’s enquiry about the fate of the little babe. One day it was gone. Her wings were oddly weak, but for all that she could fly. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. “How could he call except in your absence, as you are never at home in the afternoon. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents.
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