Thanksgiving Day morning, Shari woke Lucy a half an hour before the sounding of the alarm. Only she is not Madame Valade at all. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned.
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