” “Perhaps not,” she answered. ‘His wife? Pah!’ ‘You’re saying she is not his wife?’ ‘I am saying nothing. And so your Melusine is busy trying to prove that she is the real one. For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. He sucked at her neck, biting her hard, leaving red marks that disappeared as soon as he made them. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. Her nurse says she may live some time; but she seems to me to be sinking fast. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. White’s compliments.
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