Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. He met her eyes with his fiery black gaze. He came to the door and as he opened it a crack, she pushed herself inside urgently. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre. Melusine’s heart ached for him, but she had to force him on. She did not think Ann Veronica would do as her companion. But two weeks later he returned. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Thunder rumbled behind the manicured hills. I should like to know how it is concerned with Sir John Ferringhall, and how my presence intervenes.
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