” “What ball?” The question was rhetorical. ‘I knew you would be furious. ’ Melusine did not reply. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. Such was his fury, that if he had not been restrained by the presence of the two turnkeys, he might perhaps have anticipated the course of justice, by laying violent hands upon his victim. Diable.
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