The rabbi began to cantillate the phrases of the Channukah song. It was not a tune he sang, but a murmuring, a mixture of sighs and fragments of melody.
“Clarissa,” she said in the dark of the room, talking to no one save herself. “Clarissa, Clarissa . . . ” She cantillated the name as if she either knew a Clarissa or were trying to remember if she did.