“Lucy, where is your callous? All violinists have calluses on their necks and hands from playing. What happened between Ruth and her father that made him hurry off without passing ordinary courtesies with me?" "I suppose I ought to tell you," said Spurlock; "but it is understood that Ruth shall never know the truth. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. We dine at seven-thirty.
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