Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. By a tacit agreement they ignored the significant thing between them, ignored the slipping away of the ground on which they had stood together hitherto. He guided himself between her legs. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. ” “I have a clue, at any rate,” he remarked, smiling. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice.
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