Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. She has no proof—yet. For her pride’s sake, and to save herself from long day-dreams and an unappeasable longing for her lover, Ann Veronica worked hard at her biology during those closing weeks. But her great-aunt was nodding, as if this was what she had expected. Neither of these wards had beds, and the unfortunate inmates were obliged to take their rest on the oaken floor. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. It was the largest room in the house, which was why it had been given over to the main business of the convent as a house of God. ‘It was a good chance for a new life,’ Joan explained, venturing to face Melusine again, ‘and Martha took it.
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