I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. ‘Tell me, my boy. In the retrospect she was amazed to think how things had gone to pieces, for at the outset she had been quite prepared to go home again upon terms. Beware of him, my son! Beware of him! You know not what villany he is capable of. I found him once in my rooms, and I believe that he had a key to my front door. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. You’ll never even see me again, for that 268 matter.
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