― I could not leave thee⁠ ⁠…

―Afterwits, Miss Douce promised coyly.

―No, now, urged Lenehan. Sonnez la cloche! O do! There’s no-one.

She looked. Quick. Miss Kenn out of earshot. Sudden bent. Two kindling faces watched her bend.

Quavering the chords strayed from the air, found it again, lost chord, and lost and found it faltering.

―Go on! Do! Sonnez!

Bending, she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee. Delayed. Taunted them still, bending, suspending, with wilful eyes.

― Sonnez!