’ ‘He said!’ Melusine uttered scornfully. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. But here was new music, tender and kindly and whimsical, that first roved to and fro in the mind and then cuddled up in the heart. But he knew. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. He first met her when he had caught her smoking behind the Joliet LaudrO-Matic one cool overcast day in late August. She knew very well that a new thing was stirring in her. She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness.
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