As if it were she, and not Melusine, who had been hurt by the imposters. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. Somewhat alarmed at his appearance, Thames laid his hand upon his sword. With Baptist Kettleby, to engage in a matter is to go through with it.
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