We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. Still, I suppose Melusine can always sell the house. ’ Chapter Twelve In the elegantly appointed blue saloon, Melusine sat disconsolate, gazing out of the window at the dull sky. It’s an instinct. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. I should as soon think of trusting a woman. I must tell you all about God’s land, this marvellous virgin country, with its silent forests and dazzling peaks.
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