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“Was he really?” She asked, waiting on baited breath. Sir John, who was standing outside, looked past him at the girl still sitting in the shadow. She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed. We’ll make short work of them. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. It’s kind of the World War II thing. “Who on earth did you study violin with?” Michelle jumped in. Lord, I am sixty.
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