The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. “I’m going for a long tramp, auntie,” she said. You were accused of having been seen with the latter. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. ‘What in God’s name is going on?’ Glancing swiftly towards the doorway, Gerald saw his friend’s disbelieving face and burst out, speaking over the top of Melusine as she made another grab for the little square of linen.
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