She confronted him with his own double-standard. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. ‘Because he knows you for an imposter,’ Melusine flashed. “Oh, Ann Veronica!” he cried, “I cannot let you go like this! You don’t understand. ” “I like the mystical way better,” said Ann Veronica, and thought. She lay very still and closed her eyes, hear tears gliding off of her ears, causing them to itch. But I have not done so, and will not. “This is not every day. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her.
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