John’s father added cheerfully, “So, do you play any violin?” She balked at the stereotype, but admitted, “Yes, I play violin. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. Sure, I lose one occasionally—if he stays in New York. It was a bright and beautiful day: so bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was cheered by it. Why do women take to lies and deceit and trickery as naturally as a duck to water?” “You are not alluding, I hope, to Miss Pellissier?” Ennison said stiffly. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened.
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