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A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out. ‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. ” There was a shout of laughter. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. He was caressing an idea. CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH THOUGHTS IN PRISON Part 1 The first night in prison she found it impossible to sleep. He hasn't found himself, as they say. Or perhaps my father once.
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