Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. While she worked, Melusine worried over the problem of getting Jack home. En tout cas, no one has asked you to puzzle out anything at all. It slipped out—as did that “she”.
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