She brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp. “Where am I?” he muttered. Her unnatural calm was giving way. Melusine could not wish either to know how their kindness served only to emphasise the lack in her life ensuing from Gerald’s continued absence. The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church. But this was long ago. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua.
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