" "Silly love stories?" "No; love wasn't the theme. ‘Yes, miss. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. ” “Go!” he said. . ’ His brows rose. He never felt any need to explain himself. She was drawn first by Miss Miniver, and then by her own natural interest, into a curious stratum of people who are busied with dreams of world progress, of great and fundamental changes, of a New Age that is to replace all the stresses and disorders of contemporary life. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. At breakfast both of them played their parts skillfully. He shrugged and, to Gerald’s relief, made to leave at last. They blinded me. "And had you been the worst scoundrel unhung, I'd have seen to it that you had the same care, the same chance.
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