Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. But, as soon as he perceived who it was, he roused himself, and glared fiercely at the intruder from under his bent brows. But no; she must step warily. John’s father added cheerfully, “So, do you play any violin?” She balked at the stereotype, but admitted, “Yes, I play violin. ” “It seems so—so unworthy”—she picked among her phrases “of the noble love you give—” She stopped, through the difficulty she found in expressing herself.
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