When she tried to speak she found it difficult. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. ‘Her name is Melusine Charvill,’ Gerald began. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. So Michelle’s plans were to out her in front of an audience. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. Then she looked up at Brendon.
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