The life with which he had endued these sheets of paper began to beckon imperiously. Her own pack was so light that she left it in the locker. But I was sorry for poor Jack—as I am still, and hoped he would mend. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her.
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