. ’ Gerald opened his eyes at her. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes.
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