Hill again—alive. Let’s have an advance round of applause for our concertmaster, 249 Lucy Albert!” Lucy was horrified. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. ” “It wouldn’t be you either. E. Master, your humble servant.
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