D. Sheppard made an effort to speak, but her voice was choked by emotion. ‘Pardon, mademoiselle, but perhaps your father went to England, after all, and —’ ‘My father went to Italy,’ interrupted Melusine, her heart tightening with the familiar sensation of loss. John laughed even harder, his eyes misting over. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. ‘Ain’t no call for you to go a-blaming of yourself. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. He gave her silence in return.
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