He rang the doorbell, even though she had already cracked the door for him. She came quickly into the little parlour, which now seemed inordinately crowded, and coming up to Melusine, seized her hands in a warm clasp. ‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. In the obscurity in which it was now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was Jonathan's fancy to make it resemble one as much as possible. But how close? She glanced about at the shrouded furnishings for possible cover. .
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