“What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. No one spoke to her. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. “Well——” She stopped short. ’ ‘But it’s my affair, Melusine. Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. The thing is, Miss Charvill —’ ‘He told you my name?’ cut in Melusine, surprised. Sheppard. No, don’t let me call myself that. The guests congregated within the night-cellar were, in fact, little better than thieves; but thieves who confined their depredations almost exclusively to the vessels lying in the pool and docks of the river.
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