’ ‘It is you who is absurd,’ countered Melusine, the spark returning to her eye. Even he was not oblivious to it, and after about two minutes of awkward French kissing, he pulled away. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. She wanted his attention, but so did everyone else. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. Accordingly, he stopped the coach, dismounted, and hastened towards the assemblage, which, he was glad to find, consisted chiefly of a posse of watchmen and other guardians of the night.
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