Still, Katy Pfister is a grumpy whore who would open her legs for half the football team if given a chance. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. But he didn’t marry her. You take them. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed.
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