She turned them down and gently placed the violin back in its red fake fur lined chamber. He savored the last solo, the coda. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright. ‘Civilian peace-keeping forces, you know. ” “Served the beast right,” Ennison declared.
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