"Hold!" cried Kneebone, flinging down the packets; "they are nothing to me. She rode him gently. Indeed, it seemed inevitable that she must clear it up with his assistance, or not at all. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. 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. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR.
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