The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. In the periphery of her vision, she saw the door pulled back. Drowning, her brain dizzy, Melusine clung to the source of the flooding warmth, her hands, no longer forcibly held, moving without will about the firm back. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently.
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