“I suppose,” he pronounced heavily in the empty theatre, “that that will have to do.” Weber lowered his arms slowly, with an air of grandeur, looking down his long nose at the boys as though they were not boys, but failures. The silence was as ringing as the strings, and rolled in like an angry tide to reclaim the stage, flooding over the orchestra until the very last memory of the tempest in Vivaldi’s Summer had been washed away. The baton came down, the bows came up, and the storm ended.
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