She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Let me keep you from that man’s clutches. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. “It’s okay, Michelle. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. The more her thoughts dwelt upon the subject, the more convinced she was that she could not go to any one for help; she would have to solve the riddle by her own efforts, by some future experience.
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