‘She would say, espéce de diable, this Melusine. ’ Chapter Nine As she devoured the simple meal of bread and cheese, and several slices of cold roast beef, the whole washed down with a poor sort of coffee, Melusine listened with avid interest to the details of her mother’s life as revealed by the exclamatory conversation of Joan Ibstock. “My dear Vee!” Her voice became very low. One trouble, however, shot its slanting bolts athwart the shining warmth of that opening day and marred its perfection, and that was the thought of her father. “Just fine. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting.
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