Reading Comprehension
| Description: Reading Comprehension - with multiple choice questions mba entrance, mca entrance, insurance exams, ssc, cds, bank po, law, fashion designing, bank po, bank clerical | |
| Number of Questions: 25 | |
| Created by: Naresh Verma | |
| Tags: Verbal Reading Comprehension MCQ MBA Entrance MCA Entrance Insurance Exams SSC CDS Bank PO LAW Fashion Designing Bank Clerical Parabola Equations of a Circle, Parabola, Ellipse, and Hyperbola Circles Conic Section Hyperbola Ellipse Computer Knowledge |
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What is the meaning of spindles?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
Where was the concert being held?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What is the meaning of the phrase balancing a basket?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What was the status of Dad?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What is the meaning of exhilarated?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What was the age of Victoria when she met Dad?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
Who was Myra Hess?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What is the meaning of squint?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
Where was Victoria living?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
After how many years was Dad meeting Victoria?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What is the meaning of trolley?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
Where were Betsy and her father going?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What is the meaning of umber?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What is the meaning of andante?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
Where did Dad and Victoria study?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What is the meaning of castanets?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What is the meaning of Lithe?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What is the meaning of the title sentimental concerto?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What is the meaning of excruciatingly?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What is the meaning of Sheaf?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
Whose student was Victoria when she was in college?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What is the meaning of Oriental?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
What is the meaning of opulence?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
From where did Dad get his pocket money?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
Why did Betsy's mother did not attend the concert?
Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
"Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
"You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
"It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
"Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
"I think she's jealous."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
"Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
"Who?"
"Your old girlfriend."
"I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
"What's she like?"
"It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
"Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
"Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
"I'm not like that at all," she protested.
Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
"For one thing, she's beautiful."
"Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
"I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
"Then she's got plenty of guys."
"No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
"I knew it. A real oddball."
He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
"That's a problem?"
"It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
She glanced at Kirk.
"He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
"I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
"Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
"Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
"I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
"Give it time. She'll come around."
"I do like her."
"I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."
Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
"I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
"I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
"Well, you won't have to do that."
We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
"Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
"If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.