At table he carved in a gloomy but resolute manner. ‘Doesn’t she, Gerald?’ Gerald held up his hands. ’ ‘That was hardly the impression I got,’ Gerald murmured, remembering Melusine’s attitude to Leonardo. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself.
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