His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. How I could have been such a fool I’ll never know. ’” She played “If I Were a Rich Man,” adding syrupy trills and flourishes at every phrase. I suppose most of our daughters would marry organ-grinders if they had a chance—at that age. “Well, well, Martin. He could think about it later. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. In fact, the reflection of the flames lighted up the ward in which Jack Sheppard was confined.
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