I told you no good would come of it. “There ought to be some means of getting at him,” he said. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. As in a dream, Melusine saw her faithful footman struck, his headlong progress checked. Manning, all this sort of thing is very well as sentiment, but does it correspond with the realities? Are women truly such angelic things and men so chivalrous? You men have, I know, meant to make us Queens and Goddesses, but in practice—well, look, for example, at the stream of girls one meets going to work of a morning, round-shouldered, cheap, and underfed! They aren’t queens, and no one is treating them as queens. I couldn’t help the thought. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. It is not the woman who speaks there.
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