She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. That was something in his favour. ’ ‘But it’s my affair, Melusine. All who lived there aspired to be something greater, all who lived there had hope, even the slaves! Oh, Lucia, if you could have seen the Parthenon, or attended the plays at the Athaneum, you would know why I loved it there. ’ About to hurry from the little parlour, Melusine remembered Mrs Ibstock. Something with iron resolve the father had kept hidden all these years in the lonely citadel of his heart. “Well, he’s really smart.
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