Sheppard. Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. ‘Not from the nuns, no. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. It was, in a way, something of a joke to the doctor: psychology and physiognomy on an island which white folks did not visit more than three or four times a year, only then when they had to. Day by day she followed the spiritual and physical contest between this man and woman. Oh, and only look at those stains,’ cried Miss Froxfield, gesturing at the blood on the ruffles to the sleeves of Melusine’s riding-habit, and on the chemise she wore under it.
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