The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. It is your own choice, isn’t it?” She nodded. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. I was being stupid.
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