She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. I——” Then he stopped short, for he began to remember things. Funny how all but the most cunning and promiscuous teenage girls never caught on, not in 1400, certainly not now. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations. But before the Grieg concerto was done, she knew that she was free.
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