Then he was surrounded by black-clad nuns, and Melusine felt an unknown hand grab away her own sword. Was she so bad a prospect? ‘No good, Melusine,’ said a new voice from the doorway. I felt—I felt living in a masked world. I want to shout! I want to sing! I am glad! I am glad to be alive because you are alive! I am glad to be a woman because you are a man! I am glad! I am glad! I am glad! I thank God for life and you. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers.
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