’ Grasping the lantern, and heedless now of the discomforts of the passage, Melusine flew like the wind back towards the library, the vision of Jack Kimble’s white face driving her on. Almost the last female to bear the name, too,’ muttered the old lady. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting.
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