Holmes begins to speak more slowly and deliberately now, as if dragging every word that passes his lips up from the bottom of a deep well.
"I don't remember her face." He looks back down into his teacup, ashamed of this fact. "I remember some things. Auburn hair, grey eyes. That is all. But I do remember her music. I remember how she made her cello speak and laugh and cry and made her children weep with the majesty of it all. That is how I know she was beautiful. A woman who could play like that must have beautiful."