” “A little pit!” said Ann Veronica; “a little prison!” “It’s just as often a little refuge. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. "I thought I heard a noise. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. I must have been very wound up. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its occupants.
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