‘See that writing table? Go and look in the drawer there. ’ ‘You, perhaps?’ she flung at him furiously, stepping out from behind the desk. Melusine—the real Melusine—would never have made such a stupid mistake. They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. There was already a score or more of people there, some standing up and talking together, others seated in chairs ranged along the wall. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty.
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