I MUST. This queer father of hers had given her everything but his arms. “You are going to treat me as though I wasn’t. Outside in the hall he paused and thoughtfully stroked his smooth blue chin. “I was glad you did not send it back again,” he said. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. Part of her even believed that her mother would have wanted her to stop feeling guilty and to be happy. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast.
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