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” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. Even if you didn’t know it. I was his wife. And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. The women’s meeting was much more charged with emotional force than the Socialists’.

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