His conscience, however, was entirely another affair. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. ’ ‘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. She said as much to him.
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