. She opened this and scrambled out—a thing she had not done for five long years of adolescence— upon the leaded space above the built-out bath-room on the first floor. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. “In a sense—yes. Fly! fly!" "Do not think of me, mother, but of yourself," cried Jack, in an agony of tears. The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring.
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