She turned them down and gently placed the violin back in its red fake fur lined chamber. I want to fill it with fine and precious things. ‘Oh, dearie me, I wish I’d never told you anything about it,’ lamented the nun, moving to the only chair the vestry possessed and sinking down into it. Here again the clothes were minus the labels. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. The true creative mind is always returning to battle; defeats are only temporary setbacks. For nothing will ever convince me that it is not the man’s share in life to shield, to protect, to lead and toil and watch and battle with the world at large. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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