Melusine—the real Melusine—evidently did not see him immediately, for her attention was on her descent from the high vehicle. Their conversation became stilted. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. He never felt any need to explain himself. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast.
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