She clenched her hands together and leaned forward in her chair, gazing steadily into the fire. ‘But can you? You don’t know Melusine for Mary Remenham’s daughter, any more than I do. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips.
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