The doctor would naturally offer a hundred objections; he might seriously interfere; so he must be forestalled. Balked, Melusine halted. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall.
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