“What were you doing?” Her voice was a little hysterical. Determined, however, not be taken with life, he held on. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. She explained she was expecting an important interview, and asked that her visitor should be duly shown in. One more passer-by; and always would she remember his patience and tenderness and disinterestedness. If only for the sake of her argument with her home, she wanted success. No doubt she was wondering what he had done in Charvill’s house and what he intended now. He had done it. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order.
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