Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. It’s wrong in the eyes of most people. And afterwards! Sir John drew his cigar from his lips, and looked upwards where the white-lights flashed strangely amongst the deep cool green of the lime-trees. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. After a series of mental gymnastics—occupying the space of a few seconds—it came to him with a shock that here was a new specimen of the species. I’m a Socialist, Miss Stanley.
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