“Oh Christ! How old were you?” “Just—well, I was young. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. It would surely be only common politeness to drop her a hint—a fellow countrywoman too. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. Leaving the panel wide, Melusine dashed to the library door and flung it open, racing into the hall. You can do it, if you will. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully.
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