’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent. ‘It is precisely that point over which Melusine and I fell out. His guardian angel warned Spurlock to speak carefully.
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