She caught her finger in the lock and had to ask him to help pry it out. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Imbecile. 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.
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