And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. Give me the keys and the light. It’s not fair to you. ‘You mean that there is a rival Melusine to the one he has heard about? He does not.
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