She went across to the little window again, her back to Melusine. Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. Observe it—a blue-serge coat. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. His physical body was predictably paralyzed with shyness and fear of rejection, barely soothed with a series 51 of blatantly direct requests and compliments. You’ll come along of me, for you’re under arrest, too. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look.
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