A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. She had removed her hat and utterly disarranged her already unruly black locks by running agitated fingers through them. So long as she stood beside him, he was safe. 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. My only love is for my poor lost son. Fiercely defensive, as usual. “How crude you are, Anna!” she exclaimed with a little sigh.
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