A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. She was faint from hunger, her head spinning into dizziness, the blood madness readying for battle. He was twenty-nine at the time, practically an old man. “Gellett,” he called, “just come and clear up a mess, will you? I’ve smashed some things. Except that this music we have been swimming in is divine. ‘Too late by the time I realised to what a dunderhead I’d pledged my friendship. ‘Wait! No time for that. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell.
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