It was Jack, wasn’t it?’ ‘Aye, s-sir. ’ Chapter Six Creeping along the dark narrow passage, with lantern held well ahead to keep her step steady on the uneven stones—and to warn her of the advent of rats— Melusine kept her long petticoats fastidiously clear of the dirt with an efficient hand, a habit she had learned in the convent. Spurling in alarm. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers.
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