’ ‘I don’t know that there is so much to tell. 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 was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. She heard Gianfrancesco arguing with Sebastianus. Spurlock began to munch his water-chestnuts. “To think that you were going to do it—and never said a word! You are a little thin, but except for that you look—you look better than ever. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. They were sitting alone, Lucy.
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