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She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. Into this new world, vivid with colour, came Spurlock, receptively. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn.
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