He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Her eyes where glassy and shining. His expression became pained. Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. Her defence ceased rapidly to be in any sense ladylike, and became vigorous and effective; a strand of black hair that had escaped its hairpins came athwart Ramage’s eyes, and then the knuckles of a small but very hardly clinched fist had thrust itself with extreme effectiveness and painfulness under his jawbone and ear.
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