The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. Spurling, who did not dare to exhibit her satisfaction otherwise than by privately pinching the arm of her expected husband. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. This time you cannot. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement.
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