But it was otherwise with the carpenter. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. . Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. But he looked back into the hall and spoke to the sergeant who could just be seen behind him. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. You’d make a good Devil. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. On the way home he was still thoughtful.
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