Moving to the shuttered window, Melusine dragged the heavy drapes back. “Eight, Cavendish Square. Well, I told aunt. “It’s not. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. “I knew that you waited at the farmhouse. Walpole's order to that effect—but not before.
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