‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. 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. I never met your sister in Paris, but I heard about her more than once. We felt like thieves.
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