She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. He was looking pale and ill. “Rubbish!” he answered. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. The Reverend Henry Dolby performed the cermony, and his wife and daughter were witnesses. But she could see that Diane watched her more closely now, and in a cat-like way.
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