Schoolgirl. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. In and out of consciousness she sailed, hearing voices from memory that she could not distinguish from reality. E. ‘What’s wrong, miss? Ain’t I done right?’ Melusine’s mind was reeling, but she reached out and seized his wrist. “I will come—with pleasure,” she said, “if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance—not to refer to—Paris—at all.
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