Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. Ann Veronica’s appearance was brief and undistinguished. The shouts, yells, and groans which they uttered, and which were echoed by the concourse in the rear, were perfectly frightful. 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. On the way he confessed. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing.
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