CHAPTER VII. " "Didn't the natives have a name for you?" She blushed. Solomon Smith, chapmen, (or what in modern vulgar parlance would be termed bagmen) travelling to procure orders for the house of an eminent cloth manufacturer in Manchester. She thought me— filthy. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. "Yes; he'll suspect nothing. Wood will protect you," urged Mrs. ” His face darkened. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. You get this queer irascible musician quite impossibly and unfortunately in love with a wealthy patroness, and then out of his brain comes THIS, a tapestry of glorious music, setting out love to lovers, lovers who love in spite of all that is wise and respectable and right. ” “That is why they hissed me, then?” “Of course. He found himself thinking up all the psychology which he had ever read. Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. .
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