She stared. They had changed identities absolutely. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. As concertmaster, it was Lucy’s duty to seat the orchestra as well as tune them. The house was eerily silent, which alerted her to the idea that someone might be listening. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel.
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