“Really,” she said. "Why not?" "I'll tell you," cried a deep voice from the back of the bed. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. He was now as civil as he had just been insolent. . It was a mad half-hour. ‘Jacques!’ Melusine dropped to her haunches beside his inert form, feeling for the wound.
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