At around this time I learnt Beethoven's piano sonata, The Pathetique.
The dramatic opening reminded me of the opening in my novel Secrets. The protagonist making his way up Whaley Hill in Lancashire in the November chill and fog in search of the man he'd helped put behind bars sixteen years earlier. The angry, almost violent, chords that answer the pathos of the melody in the Pathetique. The build up of rain, the promise of a storm on Whaley Hill. The continuing intensity of emotion in the Pathetique as lyrical despair alternates with irate harmonies and...
'I won't get sick. It's her persecuting me. Her. And you.'
Shush, he's wearing a dark gown. He has a kitchen knife in his hands. He wants to kill you.
He laughed, unable to stop. She believed him. Believed they were going to Spain in two week's time. Believed they were going to live in a villa belonging to his late aunt. Silly. Gullible. The aunt had never existed.
'Don't do that,' Cassie said. 'You're frightening me.'