The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. She treaded down the hall swiftly but stopped abruptly when she heard a voice in back of her. She stepped back quickly, and her hand knocked a wine-glass from the table to smash noisily on the floor. Hey. ‘But this is not to my blame, grandpére. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. Yon must be mine to-night.
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