‘Allow me. ” She said bitterly. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. He dropped the key on the counterpane. She came originally of country stock, and had been virtually in sole charge of Melusine almost from the hour of her birth—a thankless task, as Melusine had heard her bemoan countless times, with the rider that she had carried it out with a conspicuous lack of success. Yet here you are, and at precisely the right moment, too. They are the only happy women in the Orient.
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