Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. Rebellious and resentful, Melusine decided there and then that she would do exactly that, come what may. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. ” She sniffled. “Oh, there’s no doubt of it! Since the girls of the eighties broke bounds and sailed away on bicycles—my young days go back to the very beginnings of that —it’s been one triumphant relaxation. ” For a moment or two he did not speak. There was no one stirring in the flats.
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