A door slammed. Sheppard, faintly. Guiding this man of hers over the troubled sea of life had engraved these lines. “I think,” she said, “that I would rather not have anything to say about that man. She felt that there was a hidden meaning under his words. Wood. ” Anna nodded. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment.
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