’ Melusine cursed Emile roundly, but raised a defiant head. “I do not think that he is quite dead. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. I do not care, but only that you will leave my affairs to me. You are the High Priestess of Life.
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