The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. “It—it—must come,” she faltered. After some time, the scuffle grew more and more distant, until nothing could be heard. Shari squealed, clutching her towel around her.
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