“The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. ‘Are you going to tell me?’ ‘But looking for proof,’ Melusine uttered impatiently. There is no other way. You got my note?” “I certainly received a note,” Anna admitted. “Go on!” she commanded. He would have risen again, but for the significance of the action. If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask. ‘And you mean this? Truly?’ ‘Entirely.
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