Strange gurgle-like noises emanated from the crypt. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. They chatted pleasantly as he drove around the neighborhood for a half an hour, then stopped by the Diedermayer house. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. ’ ‘No, for that would have had to be in Melusine’s possession to start with. I do not wish to return to Paris.
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