The man lingered. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. She seemed tense when not playing, he noted, more so than she had during the first two pieces. We have played at a little mild lovemaking again. Wood's house at Dollis Hill on Tuesday'—that's two days ago,—'hasn't been heard of since.
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