He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood. Lee-o-no-ra. Spurlock stared at Ruth across the rim of his bowl. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him. "The glass never sinks in that way, d'ye see, without a hurricane follerin', I've knowed it often do so in the West Injees. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it.
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