John’s father added cheerfully, “So, do you play any violin?” She balked at the stereotype, but admitted, “Yes, I play violin. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him. Thank goodness there’s plenty of opportunity! And we two can talk. This was in Texas.
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