She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. . I thought then perhaps you didn’t care, that you were like so many of them. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. The room was intimate and wonderful to her with its shadows now cast over the girlish menagerie of stuffed animals. ‘But you will not be in a convent. . I must finish it at home.
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