“You know nothing about the stage. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast. Earles watched her anxiously. But Spurlock was ever on guard, even when she fussed over his hair. Michelle smiled. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. . Both, perhaps?’ At that, her eyes darkened with fury.
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