He was tender with her as he had not been in years. But the orchestra had never had a finer hour, and everyone was aware of it. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. ‘You’ll make shadows. Smith's melody had subsided.
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