‘Certainly I am not a nun. That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. . And Pottiswick, of course. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression. Over these hung levels, bevels, squares, and other instruments of measurement. Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination. She could hear the raucous laughter and bad music below. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. The echoes of his hard, unpleasant laugh reached Anna on her way upstairs.
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