Playing with one hand he turned on his stool to glance at her. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. Because she states her case in a tangle, drags it through swamps of nonsense, it doesn’t alter the fact that she is right. He walked her home. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly.
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