He flipped the television off. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. She lost it in the Mint. Anyhow, he did not sentimentalize her. His instinct was in the direction of considering his daughters his absolute property, bound to obey him, his to give away or his to keep to be a comfort in his declining years just as he thought fit. It began as a joke. “He dissembles,” he said. As she did so the preparation-room door opened behind her. ’ ‘Eh bien, you are not a saint,’ Melusine snapped.
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