Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful. The lights rolled over, and were extinguished. Her hair and voice and figure are as yours used to be.
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