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“He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. Sheila’s own waif of a husband had objected to her airing the truth, he had even gotten the nerve to bring up the word divorce. The youth with the hair brushed back and the spectacled Scotchman joined in the fray for and against the women’s vote.
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