I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. ‘Why did he make me French, Marthe? Why did he give me this name of Melusine, and say I am born of Suzanne Valade?’ Martha looked at her, but her lips remained firmly closed. She had seen a man’s head steal out for a moment and draw the curtains a little closer. ‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. The agonized mother could scarcely repress a scream at the spectacle that met her gaze. She could not analyse what was stirring in her: the thought of losing the doll, the dog, and the cat. They’re in grad school and they both live in New York. She could tell that he was furious in that instant.
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