“Lucy, where is your callous? All violinists have calluses on their necks and hands from playing. As the day wore on, the crowds diminished,—many who would not submit to the turnkey's demands were sent away ungratified,—and at five o'clock, only two strangers, Mr. My only excuse is that I missed my way here, and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning. “I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive. The conversation which her entrance had interrupted began to buzz again all around her. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. I must go somewhere into hiding, a long, long way off.
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