They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. “Dreadful women, my dear!” said Miss Stanley. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. " "Oh, dear! how I should like to see him. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair.
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