He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. ’ ‘She’s as clothheaded as you,’ Roding retorted, but he slipped an arm about the lady’s waist and gave her a quick squeeze. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence.
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