" "It is strange," replied Winifred, artlessly. Her cheeks were aflame. ’ ‘How do I know that?’ demanded Jack. 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. "Those chops, fried potatoes, and buttered toast. That is the dreadful truth. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise.
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