Chapter Eleven
Melusine’s limbs nearly gave way beneath her. Each became frightfully aware of
the other as a plastic energetic body, of the strong muscles of neck against cheek,
of hands gripping shoulder-blade and waist. She realized more and more the
quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in
certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of
such a self-abandonment. Gay, was a stout,
good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an
oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish
humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd
and sarcastic curl. Such was the effect produced upon the passengers by his good looks
and manly deportment, that few—especially of the gentler and more susceptible
sex—failed to turn round and bestow a second glance upon the handsome
stranger.
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