There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. " The spinsters stared at her blankly. “What nonsense is this? What raving! My dear child, you DO live, you DO exist! You have this home.
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