She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her. ‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer. Ovarian cancer. And so —’ ‘And so she was able to become my—’ Melusine did not say it, for wet-nurse no longer seemed appropriate. ‘Do you think I could bear to be without you for a moment longer? I am quite jealous of Melusine taking up all your attention. CHAPTER XXIII Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. They had changed identities absolutely. She wanted to cry out upon herself for the uttermost fool in existence. After a while he spoke again. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light.
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