“What makes you ask such a question, Vee?” she said. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. It will be a little lonely sometimes,” she said, looking around at them, “and I shall miss you all, but it is the fairest for myself —and I think for you. A riding-habit is all I have seen. To my loving parents and brothers, and my Aunts, Gail and Barb. And here you are!” Her aunt opened all the fingers of her gloved hand in a rhetorical gesture. ‘Still—here? Wasting your—time. .
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