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She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. They were wed in Florence, in the grandest cathedral she had ever seen, the Santa Maria del Fiore. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. And for many years, that was the way it was. The Cantonese, excepting in the shops where he expects profit, always resents the intrusion of the fan-quei—foreign devil. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. “Beautiful these autumn flowers are,” said Ann Veronica, in a wide, uncomfortable pause. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. .
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