She tried not to pant, not to reveal herself, and she began to shake. Suppose our proper place is a shrine. Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. “It’s very good,” she said.
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