He unstrung the old Martin carefully, laying it on a cloth, a fond duty he had postponed too long. His face was set, like an ironwood mask; dutiful motion. Each old string was wrapped as a spare, set aside, pegs inspected; then rare polish. Natural oil gleamed on fine wood, rubbed carefully everywhere.

Thinking of the sheer beauty, his heart skipped -- he polished everything once more, the old scratches and the beloved frets, Again the salt tears spoiled it, and the job began anew, Sisyphean. She would not write; he understood. But why did she keep thinking so much?