Bête, she told herself fiercely. Deuce take it! I was very near spelling my name with one P. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. I can assure you, Anna, it will take me years to get decently established.
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