” “It’s a very good image,” said Ann Veronica. Nervously he pulled alongside the dilapidated oncewhite farmhouse. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. That’s got his nerves to rags. She kissed his neck and licked him there. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force.
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