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Chapter Eight For an instant in the silence that followed, shocked into immobility, Melusine stared in horror at the body lying there so still. At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. She kicked him in the shin, trying to knock him off his feet. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. Not if I read her aright.
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