The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell. ‘Jacques, are you dead? Jacques, do you hear me?’ Melusine put her cheek to his lips, and felt the faint warmth of his breath. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child.
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