’ Chapter Nine As she devoured the simple meal of bread and cheese, and several slices of cold roast beef, the whole washed down with a poor sort of coffee, Melusine listened with avid interest to the details of her mother’s life as revealed by the exclamatory conversation of Joan Ibstock. You've your own reasons, no doubt, for bringing up her son —perhaps, I ought rather to say your son, Mr. ‘Keep your distance! You dare to tell me I cannot refuse?’ He glared at the girl. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. You have darkened your eyebrows, you have even changed your style of dress.
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