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Once in the room, the door locked, the sense of loneliness had dropped away from her as the mists used to drop away from the mountain in the morning. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. “Thank you, Martin,” she replied graciously. “Many nights I have thought of you, Anna. Voilà tout, as Melusine herself would say.
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