Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. He can come round there. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. 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. " Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them.
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