‘She wormed it out of me, the little fiend. She seemed tense when not playing, he noted, more so than she had during the first two pieces. . And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. Lost, stolen, or strayed, the Young Person!. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. If they entered a shop, he paused by the doorway, as if waiting for the journey to be resumed. “Any choice as to which of the Halls? You can pick and choose, you know.
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