’ Melusine sighed in a satisfied way. “Thank you—for coming,” he said. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. He looked at her, hurt. He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. A little darling? Lord in heaven, he had taken leave of his senses. Say that I will call again or let him know my address in London. Only the next of kin.
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