Looking at this girl, a sense of failure swept over him. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. He felt hands tugging at him, mysterious creatures with long fingers and sharp nails that pulled at his flesh. Annabel shook her head. ‘And me, I am a lady.
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