She turned them down and gently placed the violin back in its red fake fur lined chamber. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. “Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world.
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