A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do. I went to the theatre that night. ’ ‘Certainly he is not a friend,’ Melusine agreed, ‘but he has gone, after all. It's too hard. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. The overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. But how close? She glanced about at the shrouded furnishings for possible cover. She had slept badly at first in a long chair next to the fire waiting for him to return, but caught on after that. The proa bore away to the northwest out of which it had come.
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