An unhappy little sigh escaped her. ‘That was one of my own clever stories. Sheppard. The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. I am called Melusine. You needn’t be in any doubt about it. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. Wood, with a look meant to reduce her supposed rival to the dust. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable.
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