Her hands were icy. Her cheeks were
hot. The man before her was not Theodore Brandeis, the
violinist, but Teddy, the bright-haired, knickered schoolboy
who played to those people seated in the yellow wooden pews
of the temple in Winnebago. The years seemed to fade away.
He crouched over his violin to get the 'cello tones for
which he was to become famous, and it was the same hunched,
almost awkward pose that the boy had used. Fanny found
herself watching his feet as his shifted his position. He
was nervous. And he was not taken out of himself. She knew
that because she saw the play of his muscles about the jaw-
bone. It followed that he was not playing his best. She
could not tell that from listening to him. Her music sense
was dulled. She got it from these outward signs. The woman
next to her was reading a program absorbedly, turning the
pages regularly, and with care. Fanny could have killed her
with her two hands. She tried to listen detachedly. The
music was familiar to her. Theodore had played it for
her, again and again.
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