But Sheppard took no notice of the exclamation. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape. “Where?” “To that ball. ‘That is true,’ Melusine conceded. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. She still could not muster the strength to leave.
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