He did not particularly care. Melusine, used to the stark surroundings of the convent at Blaye, had no complaint to make. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. “Are you with us?” said the tired woman. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. ’ Obediently, Gerald rose and walked to the other end of the parlour. ‘What can I do, miss?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ cried Melusine.
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