I wonder whether you would mind, Lady Ferringhall,” he went on, with a sudden glance at her, “if I tell you that you yourself remind me a great deal more of what she was like then, except of course that your complexion and colouring are altogether different. Cathy's eyebrows perked up. Every inch of the house felt safe to her, small and welcoming. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. The car ride to the new movie theater, a multiplex, was brief and harrowing. We aren't between him and heaven; he is between us and heaven.
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