" "You mustn't talk. To his intense satisfaction, Melusine bit her lip on a tremor. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. She addresses you as the Flower of the Lotus, as the Resplendent Moonbeam. Fortescue’s steps, and encountered him with an air of artless surprise.
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