The voices went into his ears but left no impression of their import. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. Between herself and yonder evil mind she had the strongest buckler God could give—love. ’ Chapter Nine As she devoured the simple meal of bread and cheese, and several slices of cold roast beef, the whole washed down with a poor sort of coffee, Melusine listened with avid interest to the details of her mother’s life as revealed by the exclamatory conversation of Joan Ibstock. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. She foraged about in her mind for some satisfying equivalent which would express in English this gurgling drone the Chinese called a language.
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