” Her mind diverged to other aspects, and another type of womanhood. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. ‘She knows what she’s up against. This is your choice.
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