As if it were she, and not Melusine, who had been hurt by the imposters. He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free. For freedom at least. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. “Well!” she declared good-humouredly. “Why can’t we propagate by sexless spores, as the ferns do? We restrict each other, we badger each other, friendship is poisoned and buried under it!. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free.
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