Lucy auditioned on a borrowed violin. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. Lucy felt her heart splinter in her breast. Her head rose. He thanked God for this talent of his. The class of guests we have are all permanent, and I am obliged to be very careful indeed.
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