‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. She will not confide in me. She meant to go, she meant to go, she meant to go. And many of these deaths could be avoided if it were not for superstition. 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. There was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would have rushed to my eyes unbidden at the bare mention of generosity like yours, Mr. I don’t conceal it. “Ciao, Fragolina. I must tell somebody—and you would understand.
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