” She played with her hair. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. Some part of the stiff vigour of the man seemed to have subsided. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. " "Odd's me! do you think so?" cried the host of the Trumpeter. She felt like Snow White in a secret forest house populated by dwarves.
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