You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. Yet there was nothing for her to do. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. Rebellious and resentful, Melusine decided there and then that she would do exactly that, come what may. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. But I have not done so, and will not. You can pull it over on everybody else, Lucy, but not on me. Is there?” “Nothing,” said Ann Veronica, with a radiant face. I don’t suggest any philanthropy. I knew it. F.
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