’ Melusine swung away and moved to stare dully out of the window of the little chapel vestry onto the mews outside. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. He lowered her neck before her, and she noticed a bizarre urge to bite him rising from her mind like an itch. Listen to me, Winifred. His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. So while he talked to this girl of work and freedom, his slightly protuberant eyes were noting the gracious balance of her limbs and body across the gate, the fine lines of her chin and neck. She breathed deeply.
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