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Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. She finished the olive and looked up. Stir a foot, and I strike. I was grounded for the last two weeks. All these circumstances,—slight in themselves, but powerful in their effect,—touched the heart of the widowed carpenter, and added to his depression. She wanted him so badly it hurt. “I think you are getting to understand me better.
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