Quite suddenly she stopped.

She knew how to play the quaint last notes.

She knew something that no master had ever taught her.
She swung round on the stool and faced the light.

It was afternoon--an autumn afternoon in Russia--and the pink light made the very best of a face which was not beautiful at all, never could be beautiful--a face about which even the owner, a woman, could have no possible illusion.

It was broad and powerful, with eyes too far apart, forehead too broad and low, jaw too heavy, mouth too determined.