“I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. Her mouth at half-cock, Melusine stood there staring at him. Above her head was an aura of white fire. Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt. “Do you know,” she confessed, “I never thought of that?” He looked at her as though doubting even now whether she could possibly be in earnest. " Neither spinster noticed the reluctance in the tones. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do.
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