It was the grand nursery of vice. I—I don’t understand,” the man faltered wearily. She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magic blue horizon. ‘Tell me the truth, Melusine. I'll go with you. I’m fine. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. After all, where prayer fails, a pistol is bound to succeed. ’ Gerald moved to the long sofa, dusted it with elaborate care with one of its cushions, and with a gesture invited her to sit down.
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