It was obvious that the dark brown violin with
which he played slow, sad music could not be used for the Hungarian
Dances. He had a special violin for those, striped with barbaric colour.
The woman who had broken one of his violins stood at the window with her
back toward him. Her shoulders shook and from time to time she lifted
the bit of white to her eyes. It was annoying, he thought; even worse
than the shadows and the fire. He was about to call to her and suggest,
ironically, that she had cried enough and that the flowers would be
spoiled if they got too wet, when someone called, from the next room:
"Miss Rose!"
She turned quickly, wiped her eyes once more, and, without making a
sound, went out on the white cloud that surrounded her half way to her
waist.
He tried to change his position a little and felt his own bed under him.
His body was stiff and sore, but he had the use of it, except his left
arm. Try as he might, he could not move it, for it was weighted down and
it hurt terribly.
"Miss Rose, Miss Rose, Miss Rose, Miss Rose." The words beat hard in his
ears like a clock ticking loudly.
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