The marriage lines that confirmed a union between the said André Valade and Mademoiselle Melusine Charvill touched the old scars and he gave vent to a muttered expletive. He stood back, smiling with an air of proprietorship, and looking about him at the business-like equipment of the room. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. His eyes swept down and Melusine felt the quiver at her lips where he gazed. You know you don’t mean it.
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