The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. Earles said, slowly, keeping his eyes fixed upon her, “forty at the ‘Unusual,’ two turns, encores voluntary, six for matinées. Or else I would have finished him. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool.
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