Then suddenly, in front of all those windows, he folded her in his arms and pressed her to him, and kissed her unresisting face. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. Her hair had become so matted that Sebastian had sheared it off, which made her the very mirage of a nubile young boy.
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