Oh, and only look at those stains,’ cried Miss Froxfield, gesturing at the blood on the ruffles to the sleeves of Melusine’s riding-habit, and on the chemise she wore under it. ’ The core of hurt rose up, tearing at her insides. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want. The prospect of the gallows would never deter me from taking to the road, if I were so inclined. Without her, it was lonely.
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