It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. “Yes I did. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. "What is a sing-song girl?" she asked. . She visualized him as in a policeman’s uniform and quite impassive. It lay undisturbed in the remotest corner of the recess. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. ” She found herself trying to remember all the old tunes her mother had taught her, as they were bright as little stars. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor.
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