Ramage went up the Avenue, and she hurried along the path with a beating heart and a disagreeable sense of unsolved problems in her mind. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. John’s father added cheerfully, “So, do you play any violin?” She balked at the stereotype, but admitted, “Yes, I play violin. "It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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