Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. Ramage—about the forty pounds. At any rate, I can see that you’re not protecting him at all. ‘But you are idiot. ’ ‘But why, Marthe,’ asked Melusine, as she walked into the house. “Good-bye, John,” she said simply. . . .
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