Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. You don’t know. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. ‘Pig! Pig, a thousand times!’ Running footsteps could be heard now, and she knew that the commotion was bringing the nuns, just as she had hoped. I don’t think that the rest of the people here like us very well, do they, Arthur, so we’re obliged to be friends.
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