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The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. “I’m sorry! Mary! Are you hurt?” “No. Supper was over. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. “My Mom was a good lady. He died when I was. Her husband quickly joined the fray, making her giggle and laugh. I don't ask you to supply my place—for that is, perhaps, impossible. She pushed him gently on the chest. You want music. She dismissed the whole subject with a little shrug of the shoulders.
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