“Lucy, where is your callous? All violinists have calluses on their necks and hands from playing. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. He had sold half a dozen short tales to thirdrate magazines; but this letter had been issued from a distinguished editorial room, of international reputation. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine.
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