The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. “Your name, I believe, is——” “Pellissier,” Anna answered. 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. \"Actually, John, I really must get going. He was caked with dried muck. The joke of it is that he’s married to her now, and cuts me dead.
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