“Dreadful women, my dear!” said Miss Stanley. “And, after all, I am just one common person!” She watched the throb of the arteries in the stem of her neck, and put her hand at last gently and almost timidly to where her heart beat beneath her breast. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. ’ The lashes fluttered demurely. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors.
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