Critically, she stared at her own features. 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. It began in the eyes and spread to the lips: warm, embracing, even fatherly. " "I'm not afraid, mother," said the little girl, smelling at the bouquet.
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