She has no proof—yet. “Could you play ‘Fiddler on the Roof’?” father Thomas pleaded. People think it is, but they are wrong. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. “Look at me. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. He seized a tray, squatted on the floor, and imitated the tom-tom. The latter were saved; but of the former nothing but the blackened stone walls were found standing on the morrow. She remembered the doctor's warning that the real battle would begin when the patient recovered consciousness. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet. But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her.
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