‘It is that he needed me for his lie, no?’ Melusine said, striving to control the quiver in her voice. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. This she put into the trunk. ‘You see, it’s difficult to do a service for someone when you don’t know who they are, or what they’re up to.
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