She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. Hurry. As in all things, so his thoughts came to him deliberately. Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other. ‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. To fall upon those tales for the first time, when the mind was fresh and the heart was young! He became aware of an odd phase to this conversation. Would you tell her … now?" his eyes flaming with mockery. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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