‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. ‘Why, that’s one of the names with which she tried to fob me off. I slaved over it, contacted half a dozen genealogy groups and came up with zilch.
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