You’re a piss-poor liar, John. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. The stench was cheese-like and unbearable and Lucy dry-heaved. So long as she stood beside him, he was safe. I’ve had enough of it. ’ Melusine shrugged. He went by another name then,—Rykhart Scherprechter I think he called himself. None at all. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. She never forced the issue, it was their father’s job. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father.
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