’ ‘But you are not a surgeon,’ protested Melusine. “Now, there, there. Of course. ‘You do not know how I am like my mother. ‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. You might be able to use the picture some day. . The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry. It was not only that her father had said all sorts of inconsistent and unreasonable things, but that by some incomprehensible infection she herself had replied in the same vein. She could see that she was now the exclusive object of the boy’s attention. But you belong to me—and I want you.
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