She was a large, resilient girl, with a foolish smile, a still more foolish expression of earnestness, and a throaty contralto voice. He glanced down between the still narrow distance that lay between Melusine and himself, and discovered her hand there, a very small dagger within it. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. He was not particularly grateful for the present situation. She could not resist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of the fictional characters. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head.
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