She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. He got up. Lord above, had they wounded each other? But Melusine’s need was paramount with Gerald and he tried to shake off her clinging fingers. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. . There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. “Let us put the lamp out,” she said; “the flames are ever so much better for talking,” and Ann Veronica agreed.
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