“Who took care of you after she died?” “My father. ‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald. Brown. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. I said as how I’d tell Mr Jarvis as he wanted to take you away. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her.
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