‘Very well, Kimble. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. Old London Bridge. So I undertook to protect her by keeping love out of her life, by crushing it whenever it appeared, obliterating it. ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ enquired the captain at length, ‘that you have had the infernal audacity, the—the gall, the—the— Gad, it’s an outrage! You’ve stolen a horse from a priest?’ ‘I did not steal it,’ protested Melusine hotly. My boys buy them with beads or bolts of calico of mine.
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