He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. “I don’t see quite what your game is, Vee, but I suppose you’ve got a game on somewhere. They are arbitrary and unjust and dogmatic and brutish and lustful. Keep a sharp look out, Austin, and see that we lose no one else. ‘Parbleu, the bullet is still inside you,’ Melusine guessed, remembering how the Mother Abbess had diagnosed Leonardo’s suffering when he had first come to the convent. For a time she could scarcely believe he was gone. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit.
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