The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. “So it seems that I was wrong. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. Gay," he added, turning to the poet. "Why do you laugh?" he asked. It is not every sort of creature needs—these males. “I am going,” he said, “to be impertinent.
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