"Surely, Pam, you play or something?"
"I sing a little," I said.
"Then do try," said she—you know the sort of woman who always asks another woman to "try" to sing.
I went straight to the piano and I sang "Melisande in the Wood," accompanying myself.
I think my voice has a funny register, it seems to surprise people. It's terrifically deep and strong and soft—almost "furry."
It's rather disconcerting, because it doesn't sound as if it belonged to me at all; I am like a doll's house fitted with a church organ.
I don't think I have ever sung as I did that night. I was pealing and ringing and chanting inside before ever I started, and all that was there in my heart seemed to rush into my voice.
It was like some great big longing, hoping, sad she-spirit singing.
When the last "sleep" had sort of slid away, I turned round; they were all in the room staring—just staring.
Walter Markham came over to see me.