"Do—do forgive me, Claudie! Those dreadful spoons!"
She picked them up.
"Of course. What are all these books doing here?"
"I brought them. I thought after tea we might talk over words. You remember?"
"Oh, yes. Well—but I've begun on something."
"Were you playing it just now?"
"Some of it."
"What is it?"
"Francis Thompson's The Hound of Heaven."
Jacob Crayford—what would he think of that sort of thing?