‘She would say, espéce de diable, this Melusine. The house had in fact been converted into a convent, but the fact could not be advertised, not even in the Catholic enclave that existed in this part of town. It is that you cannot refuse her sanctuary. She gurgled. Good night. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said. It was the largest room in the house, which was why it had been given over to the main business of the convent as a house of God.
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