And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably. "And who is this Van Gal—Gal—what's his outlandish name?" "Van Galgebrok," replied the widow. ’ Her conversation was wonderful, Gerald decided. ’ Melusine’s arm crept up around his neck.
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