” “It’s all the same,” said Miss Miniver. And the hunter home from the hill. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. " "Perhaps I read of it somewhere. " Gently she thrust Ruth aside. At last—I told a story.
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