58 \"Why will you not touch me?\" She cried out, sitting up, her head in her hands. "I swear it," rejoined Jonathan, readily. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. Moving room to room it was. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Tight. At last in a street near the Hampstead Road she hit upon a room that had an exceptional quality of space and order, and a tall woman with a kindly face to show it. "I knew his poor mother, and for her sake I'll not see this done," cried John Dump. Something unpardonable is laid to my charge. He removed his cocked hat and came towards her.
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