Each arm of the blouse had the faintest of rings around the elbow, a stain that looked familiar. “Uh, can you get me a soda or something?” She said, shielding her exposed teeth with her hand. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. Yes, this was a little better. As the lapse of time and change of circumstances have wrought a remarkable alteration in the appearance of the poor widow, it may not be improper to notice it here. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis.
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