His voice now had lost its ironies. The girl in the forward chair raised herself a little, the better to see the gorgeous blue palanquin of the dimly visible bride. “Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. ’ ‘In this case, I do not at all wish to marry you,’ Melusine threw at him furiously.
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