Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin. Her aunt had a once exasperating habit of interrupting her work with demands for small household services, but now Ann Veronica rendered them with a queer readiness of anticipatory propitiation. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. Melusine circled her adversary only far enough to give herself the aisle between the pews behind. “Are you speaking to me?” she asked calmly. There’s no logic in these things.
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