. . She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. The library was on the ground floor, Melusine recalled from the previous visit, for she had searched through a desk in a room filled with bookshelves of leatherbound volumes. The boy was right. “Someone must have found it and taken good care of it. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. Do you know, I am beginning to believe that we only exist nowadays by the tolerance of these millionaire tradesmen.
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