F. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. A neighbor stopped by as the day wore on, causing her to duck and cower as he rang the doorbell over and over. “I don’t think she will,” she said. They would arrest him for the French spy they had thought her at first. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. Her gown was minimalist compared to those concoctions of boning and lace of long ago, she reflected, but that did not stop it from getting caught on 134 brambles and twigs.
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