Michelle moaned and Lucy, unable to help herself, stroked her hair. 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. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. ‘Gone!’ he said. It goes to my heart to disappoint you, but this thing must not be. “Very good,” he said.
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