’ ‘Me, miss?’ uttered Mrs Ibstock doubtfully. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. He swung it open and then used his body to pin her against her seat. If he had imagined Melusine would be hampered by her petticoats, he was disappointed. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. It would have been the right idea, had Ruth been other than what she was. His voice when he spoke was almost fiercely assertive, but there was an undernote of nervousness. Ask your own conscience. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is.
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