" "Piano-player? Do you mean someone who plays for you?" "No, no; one of those mechanical things you play with your feet. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. “It’s—private. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. She had learned this art in skirts, and knew well how not to be disadvantaged. It was the blood she found that cemented her decision that her foster daughter was a criminal. .
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