Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table. To be exact, it was just sixteen hours and twenty minutes. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. She had omitted that the flu had been called the Black Death and that it was a dead child that had been inside that womb, so many hundreds of years ago. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. It was such an unexpected stroke of fortune. Melusine, used to the stark surroundings of the convent at Blaye, had no complaint to make. "Buck up! While there's life there's hope.
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