” She realized it was possible to be sorry for him—acutely sorry for the situation. He tired of his popcorn and placed it under his seat. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window. ‘Like you?’ ‘But I am not French. "Something is sure to arise in the course of the investigation, of which I can take advantage.
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