E. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. I needed a man the worst kind of way—a man I could keep for at least six months. She could manage the major. The doctor frowned. With this air in our blood, this sunlight soaking us. The vestry was perhaps the only room in the place, except her allotted curtained off portion of the dormitory chamber that served for her cell—and she could not scandalise the nuns by having a man in there, be he never so much a servant—where Melusine could be sure of privacy. ‘Don’t be silly.
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