His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. . I don’t care what else there is in the world. You are you. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. Go up and get my daughter so we can have some homemade pie. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. ’ He glanced about and saw his quarry holding court at one end of the vast mirrored chamber.
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