. . I have been in torment all the while to know whether it was to Anna or to Annabel that you were making love so charmingly. ‘Good. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. Gone were the old days where an old maid banged on an upright piano above a roaring crowd, this sound was loud enough to be heard outside the building, she thought to herself as her eardrums throbbed. Her features are the same, yet the change has written its mark into her face. By the side of her plate was a small key. He held her eyes. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. ‘Oh, peste.
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