‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them. Capes went first, finding footholds and, where the drops in the strataedges came like long, awkward steps, placing Ann Veronica’s feet. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. ‘I am not a fool. ” He looked at Lucy. “I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters.
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