At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true. “I suppose you’re like the rest of them. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. And all to satisfy a succession of rapacious lightskirts. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. And you don’t know what led to our separation. ’ ‘I thought you were dead,’ Melusine confided.
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