The young man looked at her. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. ‘Why?’ ‘Why take me to France? Why trouble himself with me, when so easily he could leave me to this Monsieur Remenham to keep?’ To Melusine’s instant suspicion, Martha bit her lip, drew a breath, and avoided her charge’s gaze. “Who on earth did you study violin with?” Michelle jumped in. And the woollen-draper departed.
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