Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon. “Hey John, how’s it going?” “Hey Michelle. The stench is everywhere. The day was warm even under an overcast sky and Hilary, uncomfortable, shifted his weight. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. “I haven’t a scrap—of this sort of aversion. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. She held out the foil.
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