But it was now too late to turn back, and, nerving himself for the shock he expected to encounter, he ventured after his conductor. It came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly fantastic sort of dream. She stuffed her violin in its case and rushed into the hallway towards John, who stood outside of 118 with his arms crossed. ’ ‘Back?’ Melusine put a hand to her aching temple. Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. Here was a thundering blow. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions.
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