She glanced towards her sister, and curiously enough found in her face some faint reflection of her own rather sombre mirth. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. “No thanks. John’s father brought down a violin from a high closet shelf. Wood, terrified by the wildness of her looks. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction.
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