Melusine, used to the stark surroundings of the convent at Blaye, had no complaint to make. This lifeless appearance was heightened by the extreme sharpness of her features—especially the nose and chin,—and by the emaciation of her limbs, which was painfully distinct through her drapery. She had made a bed for herself out of wood and furs. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. These were the Master of the Mint, Van Galgebrok, and Mrs. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved.
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