Still, my tutor was a highly educated scholar—my father. He could see lust virtually dripping from the dark-haired boy’s maw as she teased every last note from her shuddering violin, the devil in a black skirt. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value.
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