His eyes swept the company, and fell upon Melusine with a glare. The houses loomed progressively larger as one strode up the block, growing from ranch to two-story, from squat 1950's modern to stately 1890's palace. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy. Yet he stays. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. That's well. Eh? Banging against the old rollers—that'll put some life into us both. ‘And if not her, for she is dead, then me.
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