He looked at her reproachfully. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. Smith's melody had subsided. They walked past his old jungle gym set to a hilly park that dwelled sleepily beyond his house. "I could," replied Thames. “So your father brought you here to live in the States?” John asked.
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