‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front. As concertmaster, it was Lucy’s duty to seat the orchestra as well as tune them. Her hair got loose, her hat came over one eye, and she had no arm free to replace it. The stage manager came out from the wings, and taking her hand led her off. This was to pass under the arch, along the narrow ledge of the starling, and, if possible, attain the eastern platform, where, protected by the bridge, he would suffer less from the excessive violence of the gale. All of a sudden, there was movement behind him. And you will.
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