’ ‘Also stealing,’ added Gerald, with a gesture at the clothes on the bed. In a flash, Melusine had jumped forward and clamped it to the floor with one booted foot. ‘As Madame Valade, you will be an émigré, not a nun. ‘She won’t confide in you? Now, why?’ ‘Because that scoundrel Leonardo drummed it into her head that no man was to be trusted,’ Gerald announced viciously. Melusine cursed herself for his injury. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment.
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