He sat looking into the fire. The violin had brought back memories of the past and its dead. He mumbled, as if to the fire, ``she loved me; she loved my violin. I was a devil; my violin was a devil,'' and the shadows on the wall swayed like accusing spirits. He buried his face in his hands and cried piteously, ``I was so young; too young to know.'' He spoke as if he would conciliate the ghastly shades that moved restlessly up and down, when suddenly --``Sanders, don't be a fool!'