“Well?” she said. ” She distantly remembered moments in childhood spent in phobic trance, when her father had told her God was punishing sinners in Hell. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. “Come upstairs,” she said, “and I will show you your room. I’m sorry Lucy. This was the worst summer that I ever had in my life, Europe and all, and I can’t tell you how many times I drove by that Violin Camp hoping to catch a look at you, praying that there wasn’t some horny violin guy waiting to ask you out. One of the coolies held the paper lantern.
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