It was during Martin’s Violin Concerto that she was extraordinary. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. ‘Oh, dearie me, I wish I’d never told you anything about it,’ lamented the nun, moving to the only chair the vestry possessed and sinking down into it. Why do I want him so badly? Why do I want him, and think about him, and fail to get away from him? “It isn’t all of me.
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