Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. The door leading to the front of the house was stealthily opening. ‘Can’t you trust me a little?’ His touch sent shivers running through her, but Melusine did not withdraw her hand. And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. He’s been near it once or twice already. She looked steadfastly out. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour.
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