Kitty could play.
Often in the mornings, while at his desk, he had heard her; and oddly enough, he seemed to sense her moods by what she played.

(That's the poet.) When she played Chopin or Chaminade she went about gaily all the day; when she played Beethoven, Grieg or Bach, Thomas felt the presence of shadows.
There was a magnificent library, mostly editions de luxe.

Thomas smiled over the many uncut volumes.

True, Dickens, Dumas and Stevenson were tolerably well-thumbed; but the host of thinkers and poets and dramatists and theologians, in their hand-tooled Levant.

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