”) Well, they might say that, but he knew very well that before long they would regret it. “Lucy, where is your callous? All violinists have calluses on their necks and hands from playing. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. Only you won’t let me exist!” Mr. "Not proud in the least, I declare.
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