She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. She closed her eyes, discerning the divinations he had been up to during her violin concert. It might be that the boy had taken one drink too many, or someone had given him knock-out drops. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. " "We may believe as much of that as we please, I suppose," observed the carpenter's wife, with a sneer. She infused menace into her voice.
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