Chapter Eleven Melusine’s limbs nearly gave way beneath her. Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin. John looked at his feet bashfully. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. She seemed honestly glad to see him. Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye. She laid her hand upon his arm. Then as she lay very still, with her hands clinched and her black hair tumbled about her face, he came still closer and softly kissed the nape of her neck.
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