It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Her teachers and mistresses had done their best to stamp her mind with an ineradicable persuasion that it was tremendously important, and on no account to be thought about. He read the Times with an unusually passionate intentness, and then declared suddenly for the earlier of the two trains he used. He had been for months without music of the character he loved—and he dared not play any of it! McClintock, after the music began, left the piano and sat in a corner just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp.
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