Her head whirled, her heart beat hard, her hands were as cold as ice. This, she told herself, was the plunge; it would be better shortly. And when it was better, then she could begin to fight. For she would fight. It was a monstrous thing, a nightmare, and she would fight it down.
"Brigit."
"Yes, Tommy?" With an effort she roused herself and sat up.
Tommy had closed the book and put it away. He now sat hunched in bed, his thin arms in their pale blue sleeves clasping his knees. "Brigit, do you think a peer could ever be a really great violinist?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A sleepless night is always a bad thing, but it is full of horror when its victim is haunted by an ever-recurring thought.
Brigit Mead went to her room, dismissed what her brother called her half of Amélie, the French maid, put on a dressing-gown, and sat down by the fire to think.
Her room was very exposed, and the wind howled dismally round the corner of the house, while the rain fell in violent gusts against the ancient panes. It was a comfort to hear the storm, for it made the fire welcome, and a fire is comforting.
The girl huddled close to it, and according to her wont began uttering her thoughts in a whisper.