There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. “You must tell me the truth, and I will see that no harm comes to you. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. He removed his cigarette from his lips and waved it gently in the air. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. But he did not follow on with the thought. The telegram dispatched, his obligation cancelled, Ah Cum proceeded homeward, chuckling occasionally. The body of Sir Rowland was then laid on the large table. Know that, don’t you?’ ‘Of course I know it,’ Lucy told him, and Melusine read the whisper in her mouth of those precious words, ‘I love you.
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