"My child! my child!" exclaimed Mrs. C. It was during Martin’s Violin Concerto that she was extraordinary. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. ’ I wanted, as I have never wanted before, to take you up, to make you mine, to carry you off and set you apart from all the strain and turmoil of life. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. Perhaps, after all, the others were right.
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