They walked past his old jungle gym set to a hilly park that dwelled sleepily beyond his house. “Mr. How did you meet him?’ ‘He was wounded and came to the convent for sanctuary,’ Melusine told him, stung by his criticism into revealing more than she had intended. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. Of all the entirely English women I know, you’re the only one with a French accent. Melusine, intent on the luckless Kimble, did not care.
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