Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. Leaving the panel wide, Melusine dashed to the library door and flung it open, racing into the hall. ‘And I trust you will pardon my inadequacies. " Nor was this all. For some seconds of voluminous thinking they looked at the ring between them, and neither spoke.
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