“Why waste yourself, John?” 241 < 31 > THE CONCERT Martin Chen showed up early for the pre-concert warm-up at 5:00. Cut to pieces —slashed—bloodied. Melusine soon found herself seated at a table, with a dirty piece of paper in front of her, and a badly mended pen between her fingers. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. At the same time, I must say that I am most anxious to improve my acquaintance with her. He told some of the particulars. We were only—les autres. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime.
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