Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred. I speak no harm of her. He stopped in mid-sentence, and Ann Veronica opened the door for her aunt. Kneebone. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. She would lure him, as he was an easily tempted child predator who could even more easily be turned into prey. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. Beethoven; he’s the best of them. Senior year started with a whimper. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten.
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