He slackened his pace as he reached the flat. Nor as I’ve to put up with a French spy in my parlour—’ ‘Peste, how you talk,’ interrupted Melusine impatiently, barely taking in his complaints. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. Whoever answers them must assist me to capture your son. She wants that and needs it more than anything else in the world. Spurlock relaxed, suddenly, and sank deeply into his pillows.
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