“I wouldn’t. "What's that?" asked Wild. But was that enough? Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind. “Lucy, where is your callous? All violinists have calluses on their necks and hands from playing. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand.
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