John’s father brought down a violin from a high closet shelf. “Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. Her moods were many and always striking. And you’d better have her fetch in some food for the missie, an’ all. Aunt and niece regarded each other silently. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense.
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