She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. Strict Catholics, and loyal to the backbone. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. He kissed her once on the lips with a passion of which, during all their days of married life, he had given no sign. Until this instant, he discovered, he had thought of Melusine’s plan only in a nebulous fashion, a naïve girl’s dream. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions.
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