“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Everybody, he felt, must be listening behind their papers. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. ‘Jacques!’ Melusine dropped to her haunches beside his inert form, feeling for the wound. ’ The lady uttered a scornful sound. “Not at all. Moving room to room it was. We can’t be lovers in the ordinary sense, but we can be great and intimate friends.
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