I suppose you have come to see your granddaughter. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. Mrs. ‘I live in Kent. I kicked the living shit out of him. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair.
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