"What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. The affair passed at one leap from a spree to a nightmare of violence and disgust. “LOOKS all right,” said Ann Veronica, regarding him with her head first on one side and then on the other, and trying to be agreeable. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated.
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