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One always dreamed of this and never believed it. And I heard ‘Alcide’ sing, and that little dance she did. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti.
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