She drew in a deep breath of the sweet mountain air. ‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. ‘That is my mother. Martin came to the stage from his section, his own violin in hand. She lost it in the Mint. ‘You see, it is that my papa, he is without sympathy,’ said the lady sadly. With each step his heartbeat increased exponentially. He stood by her side, and he suffered her hands to rest in his. “Thank God,” he exclaimed.
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