‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. Oh, and only look at those stains,’ cried Miss Froxfield, gesturing at the blood on the ruffles to the sleeves of Melusine’s riding-habit, and on the chemise she wore under it. Wherein she differed but little from her young sisters. Yes, yes, you do not like the French, and so this English lady here, she is altogether your flesh. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. No, don’t let me call myself that. “Do I understand you then to refuse my offer?” he asked Anna.
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