The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. We leave England to-night.
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