She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. She had seen a man’s head steal out for a moment and draw the curtains a little closer. “No, I am alone,” she answered. ‘Jacques!’ Melusine dropped to her haunches beside his inert form, feeling for the wound. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. Here, then, but for the time and place, might be another Sidney Carton.
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