Yes; she had heard the music the night before. Returning to Mrs Sindlesham’s chair, he held up the miniature so the face depicted there was turned towards the old lady. She was radiant. The blow had brought him back to the realm of sober thought. He turned to her and pinned her against the headrest with his kisses. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly. Now you haven’t the ghost of one—not if you play the game fair. His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own.
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