She had no inkling of that insupportable wrong. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep. Melusine turned and turned, unable to imagine just where the secret door could be. Indeed it was apparent, from the likeness between them, that they were nearly related. ‘It is of no use to try to stop me.
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