She was too wrapped up in the sheer joy of playing again; it had 201 been intimate, masturbatory. “Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. She touched bow to strings, playing a fifth. I took the usual way home. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. “I’ve gotta go. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation.
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