John’s father brought down a violin from a high closet shelf. Lucy arranged her hair as Michelle had taught her instead of combing it out. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. “Dear me! I wonder where Sir John picked her up. By the intense look of him, she guessed that she had just encountered for the first time the boy genius Martin Chen.
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