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‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. She was chic, distinguished, unusual. “Why should it matter?” he said. It was not only that her father had said all sorts of inconsistent and unreasonable things, but that by some incomprehensible infection she herself had replied in the same vein. They were silent for a time. A sound sleeper, she was not roused by the creaky openings and closings of drawers as Lucy packed a single duffle bag with underwear and soap that was pilfered from a multipack of Zest in the Beck’s downstairs bathroom. Melusine shrieked an imprecation, and ran the length of the aisle, searching for the weapon she had thrown. At this moment she was staring ahead; and again came the opportunity to study her. *** Madame la Comtesse de St Erme regarded the English major with a lacklustre eye, Gerald thought.
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