“Am I dull?” she said. Wood now re-appeared with a very red face; and, followed by Winifred, took her seat at the table. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Her voice was weak and flat. Just as he had told Gerald would be the case, there was nothing of interest to hear, especially as he had met the girl in London only last night. We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago.
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