There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. I’ve been on the watch for you. “Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. Ruth, standing by, heard his true laughter for the first time. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet.
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