I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. The man looked hard at him. “Am I hurting you?” She asked. A young man was playing the banjo. "Let us hope that, like her who 'loved much,' her sins are forgiven her. Well, well; all he himself could do would be to watch this singular drama unroll. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. ‘Allow me. You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon.
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