and Mrs. ’ Melusine had crossed to the window that overlooked the front of the house, and was trying to peep through a crack in the shutters. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. She tried to appear as if she had never been questioned before. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. I’d only have to do something about it, and that I can’t. Nothing is settled upon.
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