Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. "My lips would belie my heart were I to refuse you. “‘Alcide’ is very popular. You'll never be guided by me—never!" "Indeed, my love, you're entirely mistaken," returned the carpenter, endeavouring to deprecate his wife's rising resentment by the softest looks, and the meekest deportment.
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