“Splendid it must be to be a composer. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. . "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid.
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