’ ‘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. Stunning and continuous, the din seemed almost to take away the power of hearing. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. As she came in this morning she saw that the lamp was still burning in the study; so she stopped at the door. “You’ll get me to allude to it, but you’d have to torture me to admit it. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy.
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