“You vixen!” said Mr. He could see lust virtually dripping from the dark-haired boy’s maw as she teased every last note from her shuddering violin, the devil in a black skirt. “My dear Anna,” he answered. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it.
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