She says that everyone in the house makes too much noise, my Dad snores, and that when the house is empty, the traffic noise is nearly deafening. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. Priests and princes sought his knowledge of languages and philosophy and wantonly tried to throw themselves into his bed. She listened, her suspicions confirmed. But the orchestra had never had a finer hour, and everyone was aware of it. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside. Silly, isn’t it? Undisciplined.
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