She would come and sit cross-legged just beyond the bamboo curtain and silently watch him at work. He left his companion in the midst of a glowing eulogy of Bastien Leparge, and boldly intercepted his hostess as she moved from one group to join another. A person of somewhat artificial graces and mannerisms, she was for once in her life perfectly natural. “How unkind!” she exclaimed. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. “You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest. He flew to the window, and would have passed his sword through the thief-taker's body, if the latter had not quickly interposed the person of Mrs.
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