Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. “You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything. I can’t even make myself care. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. But the rise of the chest was quite perceptible now.
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