Lucy’s solos were exquisite in their precision and expression. The air, perfumed with the delicious fragrance of the new-mown grass, was vocal with the melodies of the birds; the thick foliage of the trees was glistening in the sunshine; all nature seemed happy and rejoicing; but, above all, the serene Sabbath stillness reigning around communicated a calm to her wounded spirit. The small predator subconsciously acknowledged the larger one. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. He had hurt her. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. One day she desisted from her search and went unexpectedly to the Tredgold College. He could neither stifle nor deaden that. Nothing could have been farther from Melusine’s mind. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters.
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This video was uploaded to borgodeltaglio.com on 04-07-2024 14:46:08
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