(no subject)
The time is mid November, 1933. The weather is cold, crisp, an appetizer slightly less similar to the main course itself. Jack Driscoll is in his music room polishing something stringed and wooden. It is not his guitar, which is leaning against the piano. It's a violin, perhaps Jack's best-kept secret. He doesn't expect any visitors tonight, which makes this evening a great time for playing. Sure, his maid is still here, but of all the things Jack deems worthy of hiding from her, a musical talent is not one of them. And, anyway, she wouldn't mind a little music while she worked, would she?