A deadly sickness came over her, the room seemed spinning round. “I’ve been,” she said, “forbidden to come. It was the beginning of June. My only love is for my poor lost son. I should have thought my note cleared up everything. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. Melusine choked on a laugh, and Gerald at once seized the initiative, speaking in a tone deliberately soothing. She drew a breath, and sighed it out. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean.
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