‘Melusine was making herself mistress of them when we met. She jumped up at once, caught up a leather clutch containing notebooks, a fat textbook, and a chocolate-and-yellow-covered pamphlet, and leaped neatly from the carriage, only to discover that the train was slowing down and that she had to traverse the full length of the platform past it again as the result of her precipitation. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. I loathe this room.
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