...of accompaniment

I did not know what was going to come from Angela's clarinet. No one could have imagined what was going to come from there.

I expected something pathological, but I did not expect the depth, the violence, and the almost intolerable beauty of the disease.

Angela moistened and warmed the mouthpiece, but did not blow a single preliminary note. Her eyes glazed over, and her long, bony fingers twittered idly over the noiseless keys.

I waited anxiously, and I remembered what Marvin Breed had told me - that Angela's one escape from her bleak life with her father was to her room, where she would lock the door and play along with phonograph records.

[Cat's Cradle, Vonnegut, K.]