He came. He stood close beside her and listened. Once he put his hand on her arm. "Oh no," he said. "Not like that."
She stood up and faced him. "Tell me the truth, shall I ever be any good?
Shall I ever play?"
"Do you really want the truth?"
"Of course I do."
Her mind fastened itself on her playing. It hid and sheltered itself behind her playing.
"Let's look at your hands."
She gave him her hands. He lifted them; he felt the small bones sliding under the skin, he bent back the padded tips, the joints of the fingers.
"There's no reason why you shouldn't have played magnificently," he said.
"Only I don't. I never have."
"No, you never have."