The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. “I’ve tried to make words tell it. I’m sorry. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. "But you are tired!" "I want to go over the story again. This—this shatters a world!” She tried to feel sorry, but her sense of his immense egotism was strong and clear. Too much, perhaps.
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