Yet she held her tongue. Once over the iron spikes, Bess exhibited no reluctance to be let down on the other side of the wall. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. "No. They pressed more insistently, forcing her lips open. Gin Lane's the nearest road to the churchyard.
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