“I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. His eyes swept down and Melusine felt the quiver at her lips where he gazed. Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. You lack only that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part of an artist’s equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute necessity. Fiercely defensive, as usual. I thought it better not to send him away till I'd mentioned the circumstance to you.
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