When she answered the door, she never expected the man that she saw. Even less than that, though, she never expected to see the Stradivarius that he held out to her.
"Legally speaking, a gift has three components," he began. "First, the owner must state his intent to give it, as I do now. Second, the gift must be presented to the recipient, as it is here. Third, the recipient must accept the gift. Do you?"
She took it, cautiously. "This was destroyed three years ago," she said in disbelief.
"At great expense to the taxpayer, an exact replica was made. That is what was destroyed three years ago; your grandmother's Stradivarius is still in good repair. And, I am sorry," he continued, "for having caused you such grief, but I am sorrier still because I loved you. If I could have done it any other way, then I would have, but I needed your grief to sway the Senate--"
The president, his Secret Service agents, and the woman that he had both loved and wronged were the only human beings to ever hear the sound of a Stradivarius's shattering over the head of a human being. She got one more hit in before she was restrained.
He was the first president to ever be assassinated with a violin.