F. John’s father added cheerfully, “So, do you play any violin?” She balked at the stereotype, but admitted, “Yes, I play violin. His pipe hung dead in his teeth, but the smoke was dense about him. ” He put his head on one side, pulled down the corners of his mouth, and looked at her over his glasses. Why in heaven’s name didn’t I think of that before?’ ‘What are you talking of?’ ‘Never mind that now.
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