Solti had embraced her as she was leaving the concert hall and said, “Do that tomorrow night, cara Anna, and all will be well!” Anna called room service for a chicken sandwich, hot milk, and a double Scotch, then walked up and down for a few minutes, went to the window to look down on the lights of the city, and a few cars flashing by in the rain. She felt exhilarated and restless, for a second thought of calling Ned—but to say what? No, instead she sat down at the desk—room service was apt to be terribly slow—and wrote the letter she had been thinking about all week. Dear Ned, This is almost the only letter I have ever written you but I need to try to communicate with you after so much misunderstanding and anger lately. Please try to read this as from a gentle unblurred voice—it is very bad that we cannot talk. I know it is partly my fault. My quick temper freezes you into silence, a silence that seems to be becoming a permanent armor which you cannot or will not take off.
