“We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. Ennison stood by her side. " The mortal agony behind those eyes! And all the while he had probably loved his child. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire.
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