Miss Stanley, it was manifest, had given him Ann Veronica’s address. Martin came to the stage from his section, his own violin in hand. ‘Nothing would do for her but to come here,’ grumbled Hilary, wiping his heated brow with a pocket handkerchief dragged from his immaculate white uniform breeches. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin.
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