She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. “Michelle knows!” Lucy stood in stunned silence for a moment, and then cursed. Bribble’s rendering of the service —he had the sort of voice that brings out things—and was still teeming with ideas about it when finally a wild outburst from the organ made it clear that, whatever snivelling there might be down in the chancel, that excellent wind instrument was, in its Mendelssohnian way, as glad as ever it could be.
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