My dear—I can call you that here, anyhow—I know that. ’ ‘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. ‘To where has he gone off?’ ‘No use asking me,’ shrugged the captain. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. He drew her to him with his hands upon her waist. But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public exhibition. We’ll be somewhere on the floor above.
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