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. And now the fiend Gosse had taken even that away from her. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. Sweatshirts and sweatpants were in for a while but they’re out now. "Under the table.
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