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” “Oh!” said Ann Veronica. Sheppard. His fingers closed upon her hand. ’ His head came thrusting out at Melusine like a belligerent tortoise from its shell. Three more people came to meet them at the door. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. It was not only Leonardo who had instilled in her this distrust of men. ’ Melusine might have responded that she had not asked him, but she was too intent on her mission. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment.
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