Chapter Four
Two days later, it was quite another Melusine who confronted a young lad on a
sunny morning, at variance with her bleak mood. Jackson. He had
found her in a communicative mood, and he used the accumulated skill of years
in turning that to account. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,—
as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to
the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he
were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted. Under her feet lay intricate mosaics, and each
warm hall was festooned in tapestries. As Leonardo had himself
pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the
unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who
could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them
away?
‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal
her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of
an English lady. Lucy clapped a
hand over Michelle’s mouth and struck her neck with a
swift blow to the carotid artery. In a second the glass lay shattered
upon the carpet.
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