‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. He sucked at her neck, biting her hard, leaving red marks that disappeared as soon as he made them. And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas. But you shall swing, rascal,—you shall swing. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. I've just left your nephew.
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