Milky sunlight spilled on the floor. "Aliva, your child perished with its father. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. .
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