The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. I’ve got no feminine class feeling. Of course. Love stories! It was of negligible importance that these books were bound in paper; Romance lay unalterably within. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. ‘Now,’ she said, in an imperious manner that so much reminded him of Melusine that he was obliged to suppress a grin, ‘I can see you properly. ‘How much does he know?’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned narrowed eyes on Gerald.
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