And she was about as capable of intelligent argument as a runaway steam-roller. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. It must be my fault that you have not learnt that your husband is the man to come to—at such a time as this. He shuddered. The atmosphere seemed heavy with the odour of drugs. And there was another matter. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel. His attention was focused on Melusine’s transfixed stare and he forgot to say any of the things he had planned to say. CHAPTER XXVIII. ‘She wouldn’t tell me.
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