‘Did she call you that?’ asked Lucilla, amused. The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. “Splendid it must be to be a composer. It feels like it. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back.
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