For I still love her mother. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. Her hair had begun to grow back, it now swept to her shoulders. They were only passers-by. The man had favoured him with a brief nod, but the girl had gone so far as to offer a tiny smile, and a look under her lashes with which not even Gerald, for all his scant interest in female society, could fail to be familiar.
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