“If you say so, Lucy. Lucy went hunting on a Thursday night. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. like rabies. ’ ‘Indeed, I’m beginning to think so,’ he said ruefully. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin.
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