‘Kimble, you shouldn’t be here. The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. “Who’s your violin teacher?” He asked. ’ ‘You see? Not to be trusted,’ Hilary uttered disgustedly. “Please don’t,” she said. Certainly, there wasn't a thing in the pockets. These passers-by who touch us but lightly and are gone, leaving the eternal imprint! So long as she lived, Ruth would always remember that embrace.
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