He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. They were wed in Florence, in the grandest cathedral she had ever seen, the Santa Maria del Fiore. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. ‘You see, it’s difficult to do a service for someone when you don’t know who they are, or what they’re up to. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck. I owed his father a grudge: that I settled long ago. But they were old enough to start remembering you as mother, and we cannot have that. In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation.
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