She used to play violin, you know. Eric Vorsack still toiled at work. The curtain came festooning slowly down, the music ceased, the lights in the auditorium glowed out, and Ann Veronica woke out of her confused dream of involuntary and commanding love in a glory of sound and colors to discover that Ramage was sitting close beside her with one hand resting lightly on her waist. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. .
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