‘Assuming she can prove her identity, does Remenham House belong to her?’ Mrs Sindlesham shifted her shoulders. ‘But can you? You don’t know Melusine for Mary Remenham’s daughter, any more than I do. “I never dreamt!” she said. ‘Point it at me. Nor as I’ve to put up with a French spy in my parlour—’ ‘Peste, how you talk,’ interrupted Melusine impatiently, barely taking in his complaints. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. Anything.
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