At the back of her mind, Melusine noted an odd look in the boy’s face, but there was no time to explore it. “Nor am I going to,” she answered, smiling. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. Men were going hither and thither with barrows, and ladders and ropes, removing the rubbish, and trying to support the tottering habitations. Straw and other combustibles being collected, were placed in the middle of the audiencechamber. He made a movement toward her, and then recalled the circumstances of their last conversation in that study. She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do. Anyone would be intrigued.
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