’ A hand seemed to grip in Melusine’s chest and she hit out. “I suppose you’ll come to the point soon—if there is one. “I can’t endure it,” she said. Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads, and liked Brendon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet.
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