’ ‘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. All we do is for your good. A riding-habit is all I have seen. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. He turned, and beheld Winifred. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her.
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