“She’s going to have some sort of meal with the Widgetts down the Avenue, and go up with them. Spurlock bent his head to his knees. It was during Martin’s Violin Concerto that she was extraordinary. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere.
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