It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. I would have heard her. A creeping numbness invaded her. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin. ‘Her purpose, if you will believe me, is to get herself a dowry so that she may marry an Englishman. I came to beg you instead to do me the honour of becoming my wife. We’ll have some buttered toast. She had tasted freedom now, and so far she had not felt the need of protection. She did most urgently desire to save her face in Morningside Park, and for long hours she could think of no way of putting it that would not be in the nature of unconditional admission of defeat. Her stifled misery had betrayed her.
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