Ramage. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. 167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. She may address me as “Grandfather” if she chooses, since I’m obliged to accept her in that capacity. It was a mad half-hour. I had a perfect shoal of callers. His face was that of a quick, intelligent-looking boy, with fine hazel eyes, and a clear olive complexion. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. ’ He made a pretence of rising and making a sortie to the corner to see if anyone was there. It was enough.
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