She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. He was dressed with the utmost care, and he set his feet upon the broad walk as though the action were in some way a condescension. Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. ” “Well, he was presumptuous,” Annabel remarked, “and he wasn’t nice about it.
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