‘The poor girl was thrust into a convent to become a nun. Adventure rules, and morality—looks up the trains in the Bradshaw. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. His eyes swept the company, and fell upon Melusine with a glare. It’s the only clean way for us.
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