She came along with the fluttering assurance of some tall ship. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. ’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. ‘Me, I have a name. Sheppard, struggling to get free. She despises me, I suppose. ‘What can I do, miss?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ cried Melusine. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things.
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