What better way to be rid of him? ‘Jacques,’ she uttered urgently. In any event, I explained that no one lived here and that we’d been called in because of suspected intruders. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. 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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