His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. In the evening, a band of village musicians, accompanied by most of the young inhabitants of Willesden, strolled out to Dollis Hill, where they formed a rustic concert under the great elm before the door. The fire still burned brightly. Was she so bad a prospect? ‘No good, Melusine,’ said a new voice from the doorway. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy.
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