Like the organist, he sank back again in the shadow and wondered at the phrase of melody.

Surely he had not created it?
Then what?
God, perhaps.

For her lips parted to a smile that was suggested rather than seen, a tender, womanly sweetness that played about her mouth; and a light came in her eyes that would never wholly die from them.

Afterward he would feel shame for what he had done, but now he was wholly wrapped in the new thing that had been born in her, like a bird striving to fly in the teeth of a great storm, and giving back with reeling, drumming wings, a beautiful and touching sight.
Her lips framed words that made no sound.

Truly, she was making a gallant struggle.