’ ‘Oh, peste,’ exclaimed Melusine crossly. Spurlock had better stick to the bungalow. Only her ungloved fingers, and the arms in their long tight sleeves as she held the heavy gun aloft, bore any sign of stiffness. Once a thriving town before the Pestilence, most of the buildings and the piers had been destroyed or burned. Spurlock advanced, the censer swung high. His face was white. “Yes. “Do YOU go across the Park?” “Not usually. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns.
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