" "The pianist?" "Yes. He daren't quarrel with me: and if he does, let him look to himself. " Immediately he stepped back. She had remained patently unavailable to him. “Look round the table,” she said. There would be no way of keeping her police questioning a secret from the entire neighborhood. Be seated, and calm yourself. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. I don’t want to bother you, of course. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative.
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