He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. Spurling in alarm. Cathy Beck was terribly upset and was on the verge of exploding. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. ‘She ought to be. She emerged with a white face and wide-open eyes upon a little, red-lit landing. We had such a pride in you, such hope in you.
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