His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. "The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. It was a clear, lovely, October morning. 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. Her cheeks were aflame. gutenberg.
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