He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. “I think that it is only an idea. "Intruding!" echoed Mrs. Ennison,” she said, letting her fingers rest in his. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position.
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