There is a small yewtree west of the church. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. She stared at his pleading face. They embarked upon an open and declared friendship. And, besides, she didn’t just immediately want to make her attempt.
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