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. Why must her old nurse discover her precisely at this moment? ‘What are you at now, may I ask?’ Martha glared at the footman. To love in such a way, it is excessively selfish. He had, however, planned brilliant careers for his two sons, and, with a certain human amount of warping and delay, they were pursuing these. Loneliness. His little doll. ‘Don’t rightly know how you make that out, you being a French spy and a prisoner and all.
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