“Thank you. ” Or someone, she thought with disgust. " "We'll be waiting for you. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. She put her head out of the window. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. Her patience was waning fast.
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