They went into Michelle's tiny bedroom, bare except for a dresser, a closet, and a miniscule single bed that resembled her own at the Becks. ‘Must be still downstairs. Still, I suppose Melusine can always sell the house. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. I have never loved you. She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll.
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