The beautiful city that she had been awed by and even grown to love had been abandoned. She must not show anything. Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. John’s father added cheerfully, “So, do you play any violin?” She balked at the stereotype, but admitted, “Yes, I play violin.
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