His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. Now, he must have folks somewhere. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. I want to love him. ‘Melusine!’ Distracted, Gosse blinked and his eyes flicked away from Melusine’s just as she flung the fullness of her gathered petticoats in the way of his blade. Now I shall never hear it but what this evening will come pouring back over me. At least, you are one, and I am disguised like one. However, it would only be robbing the hangman of his dues.
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