What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. They embarked upon an open and declared friendship. “Never mind, old chap,” he declared. His long struggle with himself, his avoidance of her were quite unnecessary. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. He flew to the window, and would have passed his sword through the thief-taker's body, if the latter had not quickly interposed the person of Mrs. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen pairs of silk stockings. “If you speak—farewell.
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