A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting. " "Pshaw!" said Wild. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. Her aunt glanced up startled, and then sat very still, with hands that had ceased to work. "Your sympathy is being wasted. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. 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. He had been for months without music of the character he loved—and he dared not play any of it! McClintock, after the music began, left the piano and sat in a corner just beyond the circle of light cast by the lamp. I believe I’m in love.
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