But you belong to me—and I want you. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. For the first time in her life she had heard music; the door to enchanted sounds had been flung wide. Wood the carpenter. ‘How could I know that it is you?’ She peered at him in the darkness.
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