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He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. ’ ‘It’s not that,’ the nun said urgently, ‘but I’ve remembered something important. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. It’s not you—not a bit. She had money of her own—much more than I have—and there was no need to squabble about that. John’s father added cheerfully, “So, do you play any violin?” She balked at the stereotype, but admitted, “Yes, I play violin.
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