“A little touchy this evening, aren’t we, Missy?” Michelle chided her friend. The black clad students streamed slowly to their positions carrying their instruments like offerings to the pilgrimage. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. Let us have no more of this humbug. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow.
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