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E. ‘She won’t confide in you? Now, why?’ ‘Because that scoundrel Leonardo drummed it into her head that no man was to be trusted,’ Gerald announced viciously. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. He seemed to do ten things before she could think to do one, to leap upon her and take possession. ’ His head came thrusting out at Melusine like a belligerent tortoise from its shell. Pull yourself together, Annabel! I must have the truth.
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