Ennison himself, with the recollection of Annabel’s visit still fresh in his mind, was for a moment constrained and ill at ease. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. “Yes. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. I didn’t understand. " "What?" "We'll put those stories back into the trunk and never speak of them to him. I know all.
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