‘Would you like me to enquire for your mystery lady, Gerald? I know the Comte and Comtesse de St Erme quite well. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. I do not choose the vicomte, for that would be foolish. By chance I went to one who had known you in Paris. “Lucy, where is your callous? All violinists have calluses on their necks and hands from playing.
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