She closed her eyes, discerning the divinations he had been up to during her violin concert. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. Wood. The scrutiny of any strange man provoked a sweaty terror. She had lost her sense of direction, and was among unfamiliar streets. ‘Home?’ ‘To your family. How can you say such things? You’re too young to be married, and realize this: you’re not ready. He’s been near it once or twice already. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son.
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