And I get myself dirty. ’ Melusine hardly dared believe she had heard him aright. ‘He was very kind to me. He fancied that the whole fabric of the bridge was cracking over head,—that the arch was tumbling upon him,—that the torrent was swelling around him, whirling him off, and about to bury him in the deafening abyss. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. ‘Parbleu, how you make me talk!’ ‘Your secret is safe with me, I promise you,’ Gerald said reassuringly.
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