Nothing could have been farther from Melusine’s mind. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. A pity you did not think to tell me that part of the tale at the outset. “No, he wouldn’t come here of all places—just now. ‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them. “You appear,” she said, without any sign of anger in her tone, and with unruffled composure, “to be a very impertinent person. The Widow and her Child II.
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