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The sergeant had not seen it for he understood nothing of what she told him. “You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. "The poor young man!" she said. His face changed and she saw, with a stab at her heart, the dawning of irritation in his eyes. This year—I’ve got it badly. She stood among them, watching them and feeling curiously alien to them. ’ A little sigh escaped her.
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