” Lucy yanked him into the hidden door to Room 109, a door to the backstage that looked like the entrance to a broom closet. Lucy looked at her reflection with a measure of awe. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. I cut off her limbs so that she would not escape. I keep my finger on the pulse of things. And not only so, but that it was after all, a more systematic and particular method of examining just the same questions that underlay the discussions of the Fabian Society, the talk of the West Central Arts Club, the chatter of the studios and the deep, the bottomless discussions of the simple-life homes. What is it? Good God!” An unhappy little smile parted her lips.
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