Miss Hargreaves, by Frank Baker

I drank more.  A curious happiness, a contentment, a warm glow crept over me.  It wasn’t only the beer.  I dare say, if you’re a composer or a poet or a painter, you’ll know that I-don’t-care-a-damn feeling you get when you’ve finished what you reckon is a good piece of work.  It’s a grand sensation.  That’s how I felt.