Martin came to the stage from his section, his own violin in hand. ‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. “Your coffee’s too good to refuse. ’ ‘But Gérard knows.
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