‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. “Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up. ‘She?’ ‘Damnation!’ He saw her frown, and added at once, ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. And listen, John. She answered weakly, “I’m fine, John. You don't notice the heat; but it is always there, pressing down.
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