Then as she lay very still, with her hands clinched and her black hair tumbled about her face, he came still closer and softly kissed the nape of her neck. So he made his dispositions and went off on some other fool’s errand. But his astonishment would have been great indeed had he known that not even her father had ever caressed her, either with lips or with hands. “But you must forgive me, John. ‘And I’d like to know what the devil—’ ‘Out of town?’ repeated Melusine, stupefied. Playing with one hand he turned on his stool to glance at her. “You must tell me the truth, and I will see that no harm comes to you. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden.
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