Old pupil. Epithalamy might do. He was so seldom wrong. 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. My death, probably. He had informed her that to leave him would be a choice to live a life of meager subsistence.
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