All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. For so far she had kept it uncashed. The wedding day came shortly after she turned fourteen. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance. The class laughed, a few putting their hands to their foreheads in a military salute to mock her. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Ruth and Spurlock separated, the one embarrassed, the other utterly dumfounded. Rumor in the Palazzo had it that her new doctor was a powerful archbishop from the south who conducted most of his dealings in secret.
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