She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. "Pray, make no further mystery; but tell me all without reserve. I am afraid, Anna, just a little afraid, that in Paris I and my friends here might seem a trifle advanced. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. But you have, haven’t you?’ He tutted again. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. Too bad he’s not interested in any girl who’s not a musician. It was during Martin’s Violin Concerto that she was extraordinary.
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