" At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. “No, Lucy, because Satan does not exist. He said nothing, even though it was not raining. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. I’ve been smoking cigarettes in the preparation-room and thinking this out. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. Then Capes flittered to the hearthrug and poked the fire, stood up, and turned about. She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. You can pull it over on everybody else, Lucy, but not on me. ” And she knew that she was safe.
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