“I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. Love, obliterated, annihilated; out of his heart and out of his Bible. He turned the wheel carefully as he touched her neck with the other, threading her soft curls in between his slim fingers. He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood.
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