Once more he was the searcher. He had come to Anna’s rooms from a dinner party, and he was in evening dress. “It’s—it’s a difficult question. This was the worst summer that I ever had in my life, Europe and all, and I can’t tell you how many times I drove by that Violin Camp hoping to catch a look at you, praying that there wasn’t some horny violin guy waiting to ask you out. And imprinting a kiss upon his mother's cold lips, he left the room. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. Then I assumed a rather portentous manner to prepare him. “That’s not working so well for you, is it?” She looked at him sheepishly, bringing a Kleenex out of her pocket to wipe away the excess.
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