Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. "Do you not know me, father?" said the young man, advancing towards him, and warmly grasping his hand. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. "Why didn't you come out when I called you, you young dog?" cried Quilt in a savage tone. And what a noise they made! This is how I used to call them. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. "Here we part,—perhaps for ever.
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