Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. He dropped the key on the counterpane. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. Leonardo was to me perhaps like a father, not a lover as you think. Give me the books. “I feel justified then,” he said, “in annexing his chair.
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