“I am sorry,” he said slowly. She dismissed the idea of doing so. “But your hair,” he gasped. She stood looking down upon him with dilated eyes. He himself had deadened the sound by closing the door. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. Sir John saw it, and was flattered. The arm about her was steel hard, and she felt the weapon that was placed at her heart, which thumped uncomfortably in her chest.
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