’ They moved to the door, while the lady shrugged, and then seated herself, glancing from the window into the street below, and then turning again to watch them in their huddle at the other side of the library. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. "She has flown up stairs," replied the widow. “Maybe we could swing a scholarship to Boston College for you, you know, with your violin and all. "She has no secrets from me.
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