She had no idea what she should do. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on his forehead and under the nether lip. ‘You wound me to the heart, Melusine. It might be that the boy had taken one drink too many, or someone had given him knock-out drops. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. Making her couch upon a heap of hay, she sank at once into a deep and refreshing slumber.
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