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She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. "Speak, or I fire!" "Well, if you will have it, it's Sir Rowland Trenchard. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end.
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