Her aunt went out of the room with dignity and a rustle, and up-stairs to the fastness of her own room. That was odd: when young people were joyous, they had to express it physically. “What do you think you are doing?” He asked. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. But it's French manners, I suppose. He cherished her. Were I to let you go, you'd say I feared you. Do you know the story of Orpheus? He was a musician who followed his damned wife into Hell to bring her back? He was one of us, I believe. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music.
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