It was nearly one o’clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. “Hello!” said Ann Veronica, with arms akimbo and a careless, breathless manner. Afterward he stole out of the room with the bloodstained sheet to boast her virginity to his brothers and father, which only truly mattered because she was beautiful, her mother had said. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. . . But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release. The program was to include a Bach cantata, her favorite piece from Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, and for the first time ever, a student composition, a Concerto, by a precociously talented fellow student named Martin Chen.
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