" Lady Trafford sighed deeply. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. ’ Gerald reached out and took her hand, enclosing it between both his own. ‘What’s this? Impertinence! French manners, is it?’ ‘Grace à vous,’ Melusine threw at him fiercely. " There was a pause. When the disillusion comes, when the fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't mind. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets.
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