There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. ‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly. " "I feel bewildered," said Ruth. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated. Daughters were in the air that day. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate.
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