She brought the unconscious man down. Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. ‘You’ll come with us and get yourself safe back home to your convent, understand?’ ‘But wait,’ begged Melusine, hanging back. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. One puts gloves on one’s greedy fingers. A white man takes his life in his hands. ‘I thank you.
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