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He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. They fell in a diapason of smashes. Now I know that you don’t live as close to the Beck house as you once pretended. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. CHAPTER IX. The music confused and distracted her, and made her struggle against a feeling of intoxication. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven.
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