She twanged the catgut under her fingers. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. She was enchanted by the beauty of the other girls, who were magically transformed into fairies and elves by makeup into seemingly unfamiliar yet glamorous new people. Not that there had ever been any hope of that. This was in Tennessee. Sheila knew that the Eat & Shop on the corner of 53rd and Oleson was a flimsy front for an all-in-the-family whorehouse. “You are very stupid, Anna,” she said. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. But one was clearly the goddess among them, her face hidden, her body seeming to call out to me to possess it at once. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. The two lovers sat together, and their sole discourse turned upon Jack and his ill-fated mother.
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