“I suppose all life is an affair of chances. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him. No doubt he knew enough of his world to recognise that he stood little chance against the word of a major of militia. Vorsack sat alone at his computer in his pajamas. Side by side with the cheese (its never-failing accompaniment, in all seasons, at the carpenter's board) came a tankard of swig, and a toast. A vein of conviction mingled with his burlesque. She watched, puzzled, as her cavalier frowned at the newcomer, glancing from him to Melusine and back again.
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