“And I have dragged you all over here for nothing,” she murmured. As he lay on his back, he fancied himself gradually slipping off the platform. “I will have your true reason. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Mauled about!” She fell to rubbing her insulted lips savagely with the back of her hand. The fanatic has no such word in his vocabulary.
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