But this might be merely a figurative mode of describing his customary vigilance. You are going to accept a post as chorus girl, or super, or something of that sort. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. Lucy's ears were singing. “That’s what you’re going to wear. But it’s love you should’ve had when you were tiny and I didn’t give it to you. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application.
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