She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. I wonder,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “whether you ever realize how young you are. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. Her sister had told him that it was true. He was officially in the nun’s employ, but Melusine had commandeered his services immediately on the discovery that he had conceived a passion for her. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. But—It’s just this: who was to be hurt?” “I wish no one had to be hurt,” said Ann Veronica.
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