John’s father added cheerfully, “So, do you play any violin?” She balked at the stereotype, but admitted, “Yes, I play violin. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. You only live a block away!” 236 “I’ll do my best. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. And there arose too, a background of shouts.
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