He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support. Her soft brown eyes, inherited from Larry, warmed an already pretty face. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. You sing better than Annabel ever did, you have even a better style. But about the unknown Englishman she was not so satisfied. The thought had not even occurred to him.
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