It may not be just, it may not be fair, but things are so. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. She saw herself in very much Vivie’s position—managing something. The moral right of the author has been asserted. I hope you will always love her, but I want you to remember she has offended your father and married without his consent. Her father was right: Ruth must never know. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. When she had finished the first tale, there was a sense of disappointment.
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