There are way-stations—even terminals. I spent my fair share of time in the closet. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if imploring protection. ‘Jacques!’ Melusine dropped to her haunches beside his inert form, feeling for the wound. He drew a little sigh of relief. If they had any idea the concerts he had seen, they would have known the quality of her playing.
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