A slow heavy thumping started up in Melusine’s chest, and she scarcely took in the astonished silence in those present in the room. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. I’ll be waiting for you outside. She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from. She felt conscious of her nipples becoming visibly erect under the tight t-shirt and wished that she owned a thicker brassiere.
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