Her back had stiffened, and her hazel eyes looked steadfastly ahead. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now. “I think that you are very dense. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face.
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