Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. “Mean as an old mule, too. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. I want to hammer myself against all this that pens women in. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. The house was invisible from the road, and yet enormous once within view. Go out there and head him off, will you? Tell him anything you like, but don’t let him in, and don’t tell him Melusine is here. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance.
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