“I don’t think she will,” she said. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. Why open my mouth if there might not be a need for it when all’s said?’ Melusine acknowledged the logic of this. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. Tell him the truth, Annabel. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. His first inquiries were concerning the child, and he was delighted to find that it still lived and was doing well. ‘I don’t think he deserved that, Melusine. ” He stood before her, his hat in his hand, his head bent, his voice lowered to a convenient pitch. You know you do, Annabel.
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