She had a better voice than I, and the rest I suppose is only a trick. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. She acted as her mother had taught her to. No more. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. In the hall below she could hear his firm voice giving quick commands to the servants. The sounds that reach the ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a train of sad and serious contemplation.
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