There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. She did not open the Bible but laid it on the edge of the bed, knelt and rested her forehead upon the worn leather cover. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. There was, it might be said, a double illumination. Your mind is still subtly sick. He sounds to me like a soldier of fortune.
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