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“Lucy, where is your callous? All violinists have calluses on their necks and hands from playing. ‘You’ll come with us and get yourself safe back home to your convent, understand?’ ‘But wait,’ begged Melusine, hanging back. With this air in our blood, this sunlight soaking us. At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it. The man was thick set, with a bright roving eye.
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