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’ Chapter Six Creeping along the dark narrow passage, with lantern held well ahead to keep her step steady on the uneven stones—and to warn her of the advent of rats— Melusine kept her long petticoats fastidiously clear of the dirt with an efficient hand, a habit she had learned in the convent. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. She was furiously angry. The man in me would like to break every bone in your body, but the physician understands that you don't actually realize what you have done. Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. She had agonized over it for weeks.
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