She crashed through the jangling door of the old music shop, soaked and lashed, with the cymbals of thunder behind her.
He embraced her shaking form tenderly “oh my dear… you didn’t come all the way from the House?”
She wept, “Those poor ridiculous, screeching things. Paraded in front of the judges while the white faced, red lipped ones in the little boxes jeer at them. I got it though”
She withdrew from the tatters of her dresses a small handbag and from that, a greasy lump.
“Is that it?” he whispered
“Yes,” she replied tearfully, “the very last shred…”