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As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. “When can we be alone together?” She asked him, never loosening her grip. Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads, and liked Brendon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head. There was an eerie sense of brooding menace about an uninhabited establishment. But his lips were honourlocked. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful.
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