“It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. Melusine was unable to repulse him—even had she tried. What about your luggage?” “I could get a few of my things, at any rate,” she said. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. For each costume she had devised a suitable form of matrimonial refusal.
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