"I should be sorry to persuade him to do anything his calmer judgment might disapprove. He was staring at her, openly gaping. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. Your life is like a funeral March. You were delicious in concert, by the way. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. Nothing could occupy her attention long today, unless it concerned her situation. Sir John felt and looked several years younger.
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