Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out. "That's tremendous!" he cried. “For nothing, do you call it?” he declared. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. Lucy had snuck in the back door by the kitchen and Sheila was ready for her, standing between the stove 124 and the refrigerator. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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