Cursing under his breath, Gerald moved swiftly across and dragged her away. ’ She allowed herself to be pulled to the centre of the room, but uttered in a low tone, full of suppressed anxiety, ‘How can he know? How can he know?’ ‘You mean how can he know that this is your house?’ Melusine looked up at him, distress in her eyes. The militia offered little in the way of relief. The spikes almost touched the upper part of the hatch: scarcely space enough for the passage of a hand being left between their points and the beam. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. You have to come over to my house. He seemed to be thinking hard. He had been thrilled at her attitude about the subject, which was simply not to turn others into vampires. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged.
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