But you! Why the devil did you marry her? That's the thing that confounds me. ’ Melusine heard a note of triumph in his voice and turned, a questioning look in her face. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. His eyebrows arched, knotting in the middle. “You must tell me the truth, please. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. No— no, it must never be. 276 He opened the box. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth.
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