But if she smiled at all it was with her eyes. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. “Please play something for us,” Carol asked, her eyes aglow. She was too late. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. 8 or 1.
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