The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. Melusine saw fire in his eyes and a streak of heat rushed through her to match it. I suppose that shocks one’s ideas. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree.
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