She thought of Sebastian who often returned from the charnel house that the outside world had become. “Lucy, where is your callous? All violinists have calluses on their necks and hands from playing. She had tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. ” “He imposed on me,” Annabel continued. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. She hoped that he would at long last remember his young male pride.
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