‘What in God’s name is going on?’ Glancing swiftly towards the doorway, Gerald saw his friend’s disbelieving face and burst out, speaking over the top of Melusine as she made another grab for the little square of linen. ‘How did you know that Mary was his daughter?’ Gerald hesitated. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals.
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