’ ‘What matters it?’ cried Melusine impatiently. 207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. She moaned as his lips caressed her neck, almost to where the dress met her shoulder. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world.
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