John’s father brought down a violin from a high closet shelf. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Spurling's sooty imp, Caliban. ” Anna moved softly to the window, and threw up the sash. ‘Go on, Gerald.
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