You must forgive the poet’s license I take. She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders. And the sergeant, having carried out all Melusine’s instructions as if they had come out of his own head, went up to check on his patient, apparently at last convinced that his prisoner would not attempt to run away. She was obliged, as she explained continually to every one who cared to listen, to be so very particular. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. “You’re kidding, right?” “Not kidding at all. ‘Hilary is a darling.
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