Melusine seized her chance. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. " "Yes, there was one," observed Ireton. Kneebone, then, sat down to await the arrival of his expected guest. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned.
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