Mr. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms. Chapter Eight For an instant in the silence that followed, shocked into immobility, Melusine stared in horror at the body lying there so still. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. ‘I must. “Sold again,” she remarked. Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. Eating him while he was at the end of a heroin binge left her sleepy and dazed.
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