A smile trembled at the corners of her mouth as she recalled Gerald’s ridiculous upbraiding of his own reflection in the mirror. “There is someone in my rooms,” Anna said. In a moment he was beside her. She was sitting on the mean straw mattress that was placed on the iron bedstead in the makeshift cell, while Melusine stood with her back to the door, confronting her old nurse with the truth. I—I hurt myself. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair. After an hour of waiting, she slammed her bedroom door and he returned to his basement. M. That's a queer yarn.
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