Anna admitted the fact. Melusine—the real Melusine—evidently did not see him immediately, for her attention was on her descent from the high vehicle. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. It was her distinctive test of an emotional state, its interference with a kindly normal digestion. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment.
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