Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. Melusine giggled, and tucked her hand into his. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. ‘You know what I am about,’ exclaimed Melusine impatiently. I'll put a brace of dogs on your track, who'll soon hunt you down. ‘And it is me you dare accuse? It is yourself you should arrest. That’s really our choice now, defy—or futility.
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