‘And certainly I wish that Joan will come with us. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. ‘And if it was not for that imbecile of a Gérard, who has put his soldiers to watch for me, it would not need that I make it. No doubt they've all been rejected; but he couldn't throw them overboard.
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