If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little. "I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. Yes, I think we have thoroughly thrashed that one out. " Silence.
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