He had been for months without music of the character he loved—and he dared not play any of it! McClintock, after the music began, left the piano and sat in a corner just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp. She entered the last room, his bedroom. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips. ‘You don’t know him. For although I must confess it reads very much like an application or a testimonial or some such thing as that, I can assure you I am writing this in fear and trembling with a sinking heart. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners.
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