“The wrappered life-discipline! One comes to that at last. She was in a very uncritical state that afternoon. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. McClintock says they can't get in there, or at least they never try it. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. Mr. Manning leaned forward on the table, talking discursively on the probable brilliance of their married life. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. " At luncheon, preoccupied in thought, Spurlock did not notice the pallor on Ruth's cheeks or the hunted look in her eyes.
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