Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. Martin came to the stage from his section, his own violin in hand. That’s why it’s so important I should take my own line now. But they were old enough to start remembering you as mother, and we cannot have that. ‘Lord,’ Gerald uttered, his inexplicable annoyance evaporating.
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