In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. It was intolerable to think that he might overhear words and phrases. “Do you see what I was talking about, Strings?” No one is going to want to hear a note from you until you have tone like. ‘Couldn’t reconcile it with my dooty to leave you here—’ A thought made Melusine stop dead, turning to him. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth. Dreams of adorable infants danced through her head as she cradled blankets in her arms. She closed her eyes, discerning the divinations he had been up to during her violin concert.
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