A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. She stole a few glances at John as she stood and played the pieces. “I believe that you are right,” he said softly. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. We don’t consider each other; we needn’t.
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