You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white. Those were dreams. ‘You could have fetched me home. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. 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. ‘No, you don’t.
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