I am yours for the making over. What is the matter with you?” Dunster had withdrawn discreetly. She stood there limply and did not act to resist him. It began as a joke. " "Mother!" cried Jack, in a broken voice. 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. “It’s the spring,” he said.
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