(That's the
poet.) When she played Chopin or Chaminade she went about gaily all
the day; when she played Beethoven, Grieg or Bach, Thomas felt the
presence of shadows.
There was a magnificent library, mostly editions de luxe. Thomas
smiled over the many uncut volumes. True, Dickens, Dumas and Stevenson
were tolerably well-thumbed; but the host of thinkers and poets and
dramatists and theologians, in their hand-tooled Levant . . . ! Away
in an obscure corner (because of its cheap binding) he came across a
set of Lamb. He took out a volume at random and glanced at the
fly-leaf--"Kitty Killigrew, Smith College." Then he went into the body
of the book. It was copiously marked and annotated. There was
something so intimate in the touch of the book that he felt he was
committing a sacrilege, looking as it were into Kitty's soul. Most men
would have gone through the set. Thomas put the book away. Thou fool,
indeed! What a hash he had made of his affairs!
He saw Killigrew at breakfast only. The merchant preferred his club in
the absence of his family.
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