Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. She responded with an unfaltering appearance of insensibility, and never as a young and beautiful woman conscious of sex; always in the character of an intelligent girl student. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. .
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