’ Melusine sighed deeply. The sun shined weakly through brief pinpricks 90 in the thick cloud cover, the weather was brewing a storm. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. Then Gosse spoke again, answering the question in her mind. A young man was playing the banjo. I want you to be clear what you’re really and truly up to, anyhow. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity.
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