She had begun alone. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. ’ ‘Why should I?’ ‘Because I can’t live without you!’ ‘That is your own affair, and—’ Melusine broke off, staring at him, shocked realisation kicking in her gut. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window.
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