Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. ‘Before she can think of marriage, Melusine must prove her identity. The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. He learnt that his sister was privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. The lady reseated herself, watching him expectantly. Moving to the shuttered window, Melusine dragged the heavy drapes back. ‘Come, cry a truce.
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