It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. “It is from his brother in Paris. \" Lucy said. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. It's exactly like a miniature I have in my pocket. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably. “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. ‘Your mystery lady, I mean. I wonder what it was. Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home. I am called Melusine.
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