I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. You come to England, and hide in a secret convent in London. But there was only Gosse, still struggling with the picture, looking dazedly towards Melusine and the lad he had shot, then away towards the sounds of pursuit, and back again. In the second, she was wretchedly poor, and assailed by temptations of which you can form no idea. Her hair and voice and figure are as yours used to be. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. The city presented a terrible picture of devastation. At last, he got into a lane, but had not proceeded far when he was again alarmed by the sound of a horse's tread.
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