So it does. I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. ” “I feel so guilty. Let us have no more of this humbug. Very likely you will disapprove highly of what I have done—I wonder? You may, perhaps, think I have done it just in a fit of childish petulance because my father locked me in when I wanted to go to a ball of which he did not approve. He would pick a random member of the ever-shifting household for the sake of example.
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