The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. She had set out to get a beautiful life, a free, untrammelled life, self-development, without counting the cost either for herself or others. “I’ve thought about it. ’ 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.
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