"You must not remain here," he said. She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. She could not bear the shame of it. “Where?” “To that ball. ‘You don’t know the whole, child. She looked into his eyes, truly noticing their gray color for the first time. Can't I make you understand? Perhaps it sounds cruel to you; but we women often have to be cruel defensively. Don’t take revenge on him because I’ve wronged you. Spurlock dove headlong at the other's legs, toppling the man. Yours?" The stranger hesitated. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The parlour was cluttered but cosy. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself.
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