“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. “I am afraid that you are making a mistake,” she said. Gerald smiled and excused himself with the Poussaint girl, whose mouth pinched together as she threw a dagger glance at the voluptuous Madame Valade. With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured. She peered into the darkness. ’ ‘Why should I?’ ‘Because I can’t live without you!’ ‘That is your own affair, and—’ Melusine broke off, staring at him, shocked realisation kicking in her gut.
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