plague, and a quarter-century of deathly stillness.
And one day three men come—one middle-aged, intelligent, quick-thinking, and bearing the burden of having been a great concert violinist when there were concerts, and violins, and when his left arm was not smashed beyond repair. The second is a thirsty intellectual, young, brought up all his life where the intellect was scorned but the thirst would not be denied. The third is a giant with a feel for the soil and the sun and growing things, but with words quite lost.




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