Her mind turned and accused itself of having been cold and hard. Afterward she wanted to get her letter to her father back in order to read it over again, and, if it tallied with her general impression of it, re-write it. Not like my father. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. To be jeune demoiselle, it is not always convenient. It came to her like a dear thing rediscovered, that she loved Capes. She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol.
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