Before the Monroes I was placed with a single woman, Leslie Cavendish. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. She had mentioned the address where she and her sister had lived. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. Only that I was prevented by one of those soldiers that caught me in the big house. ‘But can you? You don’t know Melusine for Mary Remenham’s daughter, any more than I do.
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