And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. The nuns had no regard for the sensibilities of a “lady” and expected Melusine— for it was her allotted task—to clean and tend the soldier’s wounds even when they festered. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. His frowning gaze came back to her. Manning loomed up ever and again into her world, full of a futile solicitude, and almost always declaring she was splendid, splendid, and wishing he could talk things out with her. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so.
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