Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. "I don't think he would," acquiesced the carpenter. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. He was also, had she known it, more than a little insincere. “Lucy, where is your callous? All violinists have calluses on their necks and hands from playing. After a while he spoke again. The other lay unconscious in a heap.
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