“Vee!” said Miss Stanley, “you hear what your father says!” Miss Stanley struggled with emotion. “He is very kind, Anna, really, and not half such a prig as he seems. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Strange, I could never learn her history. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. I do not wish to return to Paris. The other bona roba, known amongst her companions as Mistress Poll Maggot, was a beauty on a much larger scale,—in fact, a perfect Amazon.
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