Leaving the panel wide, Melusine dashed to the library door and flung it open, racing into the hall. In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally. As he was about to descend his chains slightly rattled. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection. He halted and put out a hand to stop Hilary. Then I tucked it nice and snug under the saddle-bag.
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