The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. “I mean to,” she replied. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window. Like the Valades, I imagine. There was no way of recalling the words; so she waited. Ennison was deeply interested. ’ Of which Melusine was only too well aware, for her stepmother had done nothing to save her from the convent. It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality. Not I. White, who had risen to greet her, proceeded with a formal, and from Anna’s point of view, a wholly unnecessary round of introductions. His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was.
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