“It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy. ” “That’s one of our differences. . ‘To read and write, of course, and to sew. That's a most damnable lie; and when she finds out, 'tis then she will not forgive. Mother and Son XI. 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.
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