‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. He shook his head all the time. Wood, reproachfully, as they returned to the parlour. He was amused. I wasn’t. “He is addressing a meeting of his constituents somewhere,” Annabel answered. They were his friends, and they recognized his unusual earnestness. She was keenly resolved to do well in the school examination, and not to be drowned in the seas of emotion that threatened to submerge her intellectual being.
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