‘Go then. ’ ‘I don’t want to think it,’ he said, and she thrilled to the savagery in his tone. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. She was not Madame Melusine Valade. Jests are not for seasons like this. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. “Well?” she said, sitting down again. “I don’t think you realize,” Ann Veronica began again, “that I am rather a defective human being. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd. ‘Parbleu, but it is not comfortable in the least in there.
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