Not like my father. ’ ‘I don’t even know your granddaughter, ma’am. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. He seized a tray, squatted on the floor, and imitated the tom-tom. To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again—of other things. He did not even reply to her for several minutes. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. Always. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. Down there, whisky raises the very devil with white men.
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