‘The outcome, I think, is in very little doubt. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. You can think all round me. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city at night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!' … It kind of terrifies me," said Ruth, looking up, first at the face of her husband, then at McClintock's. He continued to do this for the rest of the evening intermittently, in and out, among other topics.
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