"Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. She had never felt so cold, she felt even colder than she had in the water. “Who on earth did you study violin with?” Michelle jumped in. Nevertheless, she was still fighting. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create.
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