She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. The third time she escaped she reached the inconsequent barricade of the overturned table. Ramage—about the forty pounds. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. Indeed it was apparent, from the likeness between them, that they were nearly related. That’s the wonder of it. And the woman who showed this room was tall, with an understanding eye and the quiet manner of the well-trained servant. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. “Why waste yourself, John?” 241 < 31 > THE CONCERT Martin Chen showed up early for the pre-concert warm-up at 5:00.
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