Melusine ripped at the buttons of the garment, dragging it open and away, and gasped at the massive red stain on his shirt. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. . A hollow feeling opened up inside her, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. I am called Melusine. But it sounds too real to be imagined.
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