All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. I have a big breakfast. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. In the genuinely dissipated face there was always a suggestion of slyness in ambush, peeping out of the wrinkles around the eyes and the lips. If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath. “Yeah, everybody knows him Mom.
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