“I am going,” she said grimly, with three hairpins in her mouth. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. ‘Why don’t you?’ Melusine frowned at him, grasping the dagger more firmly. “You had no right—” panted Ann Veronica. He had meant to come at his business in a roundabout way, but for that little slip. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb.
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